Tired of Life and Death: Shadow King
by Starwind Rohana
Summary: Thranduil and Legolas are abducted and taken to Dol Guldor. Eventually, the pair escape, but what then? WARNING: contains torture and violence, might be very graphic in future chapters, in which case I shall up the rating.
1. Forced to Flee

Tired of Life and Death,  
Shadow King. Disclaimer: Tolkien owns Dol Amroth, Thranduil, Legolas, Mirkwood, orcs, the Ringwraiths, and Sauron.

A/N: **This fic has Elf torture, slavery, and a lot of other nasty stuff**. It's basically a break from _Where The Present Meets The Past_, because I had the plotbunny for this and no real ideas in the immediate future for WTPMTP, so I started typing this up. Plotline: war in Mirkwood, Thranduil and Legolas get lost a few hundred years after the Prince's birth when Nazgul invade the city, and are abducted to Dol Amroth.  
  
Outcast.  
  
They were coming.  
  
Thranduil shoved the doors to the hall open. Everywhere Elves were hurrying, gathering family, picking up belongings, trying to get out.  
  
The evacuation plan was working relatively well- most of the population had certainly arrived at the Palace by now, so they wouldn't have _too_ much trouble in getting everyone out.  
  
And that's where it all went wrong.  
  
The little groups had just begun to flood into the underground tunnels and towards safety when the doors banged open.  
  
A high-pitched, terrible scream emitted from the throat of the Nazgul, which stood there, huge and black, like an ominous portent of doom.  
  
Shrieks and cries filled the air, with all the Avari struggling for the tunnels, desperate to escape from this bringer of despair, terror, and death.  
  
_Bang!_ The door to one passage slammed shut.  
  
_Slam! Bam!_ Two more. Those remaining were panicking as the Ringwraith swept into the hall...  
  
Hardly anyone was left. The King saw his wife's frightened face in one of the few exits left open.  
  
"Run, Lothmiren!" he shouted, turning to catch up his son.  
  
There was no way that he could reach the entrance in time.  
  
The door swung shut as he went racing out of the room and up the steps, half dragging his son with him. Behind him, he heard a clatter as the undead creature pursued him. Legolas was, by Elven reckoning, the equivalent of ten, but thought beyond his age.  
  
He had seen too much death and destruction not to.  
  
No, Thranduil thought, Legolas would not be a burden, and he would have taken his dear child with him even if it had meant getting taken by Sauron himself. If it allowed his little Greenleaf to escape, he would willingly have given himself up.  
  
Even to the Necromancer.  
  
So the Elvenking ran, until he found a way out, and then leapt from a window to a tree, and fled through the forest, his child with him, leaping from branch to branch with effortless grace as they ran from their home.  
  
Ironic, Thranduil mused as they went, that, on such a sad day, the sun should dapple the wood with peaceful light.  
  
He could have easily enjoyed it.  
  
Had he not been engaged in running for his life, that is.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
They stopped moving just after moonrise.  
  
Thranduil had no idea why the Nazgul, who naturally abhorred daylight, had chose to attack them just after noon- the hottest time of the day. Maybe it had been to catch them by surprise? If it had, it had certainly worked. The Woodelves had been completely caught out, not to mention confused, especially after a pack of Wargs and several spiders had chosen to ally themselves with the two wraiths. It had been utter chaos.  
  
And they had paid the price for it.  
  
Twenty Avari he had seen lying dead. Twenty of his people had been killed because he had not thought to prepare for daytime attacks.  
  
"Ada?"  
  
He looked down at the small, childish face beside him.  
  
"Ada, it wasn't your fault that they came after noon. They hate sunlight, it burns them. Why should they come in the day?"  
  
_Ai, Iluvatar, how is it that you see me so little yet know me so well? It should not happen that you are taken, for how else will I know that you love me, and I you? Sauron fools many into thinking untruths...may it be that we escape.  
_  
Ai Eru indeed.  
  
They rested, sleeping in small snatches, only to wake and then spend much time in fearful wakefulness.  
  
At last, dawn came. Thranduil knew that it was wiser to move at night, when the Ringwraiths would be noted by alert minds and so avoided, and sleep during the day, when they were inactive, but now he wanted to get as far as possible whilst their opponents awaited nightfall, and the loss of the sun.  
  
They travelled swiftly, pacing over harder ground, taking to the trees for the softer parts, where they would otherwise be easily tracked. Like golden sun-glimmers they seemed, almost ethereal, gliding silently through a half- imagined pattern of light and shadow and bark and leaf. The name of Mirkwood now was unfitting for this place, it was calm and peaceful beyond words.  
  
The birds themselves did not know if they saw the pair or not. Legolas and his father were out of that range of sight. They were as dust motes, somehow brought into almost-solid form.  
  
Midday came and went. The shadows lengthened in the quiet forest, making it more and more eerie. The two travellers slowed, but did not halt. They would have to choose their path carefully at night, but it was essential that they keep moving. Both understood that to stop and sleep was to die- or to go to a place worse than death.  
  
For death in itself for Elves brings only Mandos, no more and no less, and a chance for life again. Capture, however, meant Dol Amroth, and that brought pain and suffering beyond belief, interrogation, and the betrayal of those held closest to the heart. Death, when it came, was considered a blessing of the Valar.  
  
Silver light lanced between the trees, creating patches like pools of molten diamond on the leaf-strewn floor. Outside of those patches was total darkness, deep and black. Yet for the Elves, this darkness was a mercy.  
  
They dimmed the light of their bodies and became nearly invisible. The sound of their footfall was almost undetectable. They avoided the dens of orcs and wolves that they knew of, and skirted the nests of the spiders. They knew that fell creatures moved after dark, and they strained their ears to the utmost, listening for danger, be it from goblin or Warg or wraith, praying mentally to the Valar that they should not hear such sounds of pursuit that night.  
  
When the Moon reached the centre of the sky, Thranduil heard hooves.  
  
Fear rose tightly in his chest, accompanied by the black terror that confirmed the fact that a Nazgul was behind them, and most likely knew they were there- it would be easy for such a creature to sense the light of an Elf.  
  
The Elvenking was not surprised that the creature had caught up so quickly- their mounts were swift and strong. What _did_ startle him was that the Ringwraith had picked up their trail. He and his son had been light on their feet, and left no marks. It should not have been so simple for the thing to track them.  
  
That puzzle was solved when a fast-running wolf appeared behind the Black Rider. It had obviously followed their scent, after being given a starting point at where they had spent the previous night. However, that was of no consequence. The Nine had found them.  
  
Or four of the Nine, at any rate.  
  
Thranduil gripped Legolas' hand in his, and the two took to the trees and fled.  
  
It was a sight to behold. In the darkened boughs, two spots of softly shining light were racing side by side, bounding and leaping from branch to branch with incredible surety. On the ground, four flowing clouds of blackness and evil raced, streaming around the great girths of oak and elm that blocked their path. It was almost a battle, a battle of endurances, a test of speed and courage.  
  
Suddenly, the smaller of the two tree-runners faltered, snatching at a branch that had been just outside his range. The other jumped down beside him, catching him, and clutched the Elfling protectively to his body as the Riders surrounded them.  
  
They were trapped.  
  
Thranduil held his son close as they moved in, their mounts snorting and huffing softly in the cool night air. Their foul breath polluted the area around them, and the Elf's heart seemed to constrict within him as they reached toward his child.  
  
Hope. A single, tiny spark of it.  
  
"Legolas," he breathed into his son's ear, "I want you to run. As soon as I move back, you must get into the trees and_ flee this place_. Do you understand?"  
  
The boy looked up at him.  
  
"I will_ not_ leave you, Ada!"  
  
"You must, I shall not let them take you as well! Dearest child, you are the only one I have left..."  
  
"And I will not let them take that from you! Ada, I'm staying here."  
  
And then the Nazgul were upon them, and it was too late.  
  
The two Elves were ripped apart, crying out and trying to hold onto one another in desperation. The Ringwraiths rode their mounts between father and son, the Black Breath of their kind enveloping the pair in dark terror. Unsought, nightmarish sounds echoed in their ears, sight faded and darkened, and both reeled in shock and sudden giddiness.  
  
Legolas passed out, for, however much he knew of these foul things, his body was too young to take this filth that they exhaled and remain conscious. Thranduil remained upright, but the horror of it and the smoke like substance he was breathing in made him dizzy and sick, especially at such close quarters to the creatures that had emitted it. He only dimly noticed when he was bound and slung over the back of a horse, except for the icy contact of the undead spirits.  
  
Pain became nearly unrecognisable to his mind. Pain? What was pain? Who cared what happened to the body when your _fea_ was under attack? Fear, yes, terror, yes, he knew those. But pain? The concept was beyond his comprehension.  
  
And that was strange, for Thranduil was accustomed to agony. He knew how to pretend he did not feel it, and he could work around it, cope with it. The son of Oropher was not an Elf who could sit back in a war. He took his people into battle, and fought alongside them. And, because of that, he was used to injury. He could even resist the Riders, to some extent.  
  
But never had he been so utterly enclosed by them.  
  
He envied his child the gentle bliss of unconsciousness. In that unusual otherworld, you were sheltered from the twisted place that was reality. It was a state stronger than sleep, and harder to break. It protected the thoughts, and gave them time to come together before sending them out again, into the world.  
  
He knew that they were bound for Dol Guldor, and, oddly, he didn't mind. He found it impossible to believe that anything could be worse than this torment.  
  
Anything.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Legolas was awake again by the time they entered the fortress.  
  
His father was still in the tormented land that the undead foulities had cast him in to. He could feel his body, but was refusing to acknowledge it. Knowing that he was a potential threat, the Nazgul had kept him under all through the journey.  
  
The Prince was pale and shaking as they rode beneath the arch of the gateway. He knew where they were, and he knew the probable outcome of his coming here. He knew that many things carried out here had been done by Sauron's orders, and he trembled in fright as the great black horse bore him toward the tower.  
  
The Ringwraiths dismounted in a kind of courtyard, just below the imposing bulk of what was once the Dark Lord's main torture chamber- except it was really many chambers. And, as a matter of fact, prisoners were still tortured here.  
  
Horribly tortured.  
  
Legolas had once seen the mutilated body of a Man the orcs of Dol Guldor had captured. The twisted limbs and infected wounds had been forever imprinted into his young mind. It had been a display of cruelty the likes of which he had never seen before, and had hoped never to see again.  
  
Now, however, he was not only going to witness such a horror, but be a victim to it himself. He was going to become one of the screaming wretches he had heard of and pitied, an unfortunate Elf thrust into a living tale. And not a cheerful tale of heroic deeds, but a tale of the likes of Angband, Melkor's great fortress in the Age of Stars. He would experience many dark things, akin to those that had turned Elves to orcs, although not on that same immense scale.  
  
This knowledge unhinged his mind, baffling every thought with deep, thick terror. Coherent understanding was beyond him. He was far too scared to grasp the concept of that. All that he knew was that he was full of a fear that hardly let him move, suffocating him in its depths.  
  
Then his father stirred.  
  
Thranduil moved stiffly, lifting his head from the ground on which he had been deposited to look about. His eyes caught his son's...  
  
...And Legolas realised that they were in worse trouble then he'd thought.  
  
Much, much worse.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Feet unbound, Thranduil staggered through the stone corridors, barely noticing the bloodstains on the walls.  
  
They had taken his son.  
  
They had dragged his only child away from him, laughing cruelly. They had stolen the single treasure that had kept him sane when the Nazgul had captured him, stolen it and borne it off to crush its light and sully it's beauty. They had robbed him of a life that he and Lothmiren had created, and he no longer knew if he could stand it.  
  
_Ai, Elbereth...let it be swift. Let his life fade before they hurt him too much. He is a child, surely you would grant him a fast release, or at least an easier one. He has done nought to deserve the pain that they will bring him, so please, let it be quick_!  
  
The Men that had taken his child had been Haradrim, by the dark tone of their skin. No surprises there; the people of Harad before had allied with Sauron. If any Men were here, he'd expect that they were the Oliphaunt- herders, rather than the noble warriors of Gondor. _Yet even of Gondor we know so little- oh, that when Isiuldor had cut the Ring from Sauron's hand, he had heeded advice and destroyed it! For then my son should at least not be here, where soon I will fester and rot.  
_  
Thranduil was brought back to the real world when the man in front half- yanked him down a flight of stairs, nearly causing the Elvenking to break his head against the wall. Another said a few words in the language of Harad, and the maliciousness behind them was unmistakable, even if he did not understand them.  
  
Suddenly, the Sinda noticed the bloody marks and mangled tissue marking the walls, ceiling, and floor of the tunnel, and disgust exploded in him. Who were these Men, that they destroyed living bodies and proudly displayed the result in the tunnels they walked each day? Scorn, anger, and horror he felt in an intense rush, yet he was also filled with sympathy for those whose tattered flesh now besmirched the corridor in which he stood.  
  
_That I could aid you...that I could SAVE you, but that is a power now beyond me, and has been for many a year. I cannot grant you easy death, but I bid you rest, even though you cannot hear me, kin of mine, and Men of Gondor.  
_  
After a short time, he was thrust into a tiny room, stinking of vomit, excrescence, and blood.  
  
With a thrill of revulsion, Thranduil saw that the chamber's previous occupant was lying sprawled on the floor, completely unidentifiable, merely a mutilated mess of torn organs and shattered bone.  
  
He reached out, his hand stopping, palm out, only inches from the twisted corpse.  
  
"If you be Firstborn, rest in Mandos," he whispered. "If you be mortal, pass beyond. Whoever you were, be at peace in death, and free from pain."  
  
And then he slumped down in the cell's opposite corner and fell into an Elven sleeping trance.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
A/N: Hi, Starwind Rohana here. This fic _is _going to be continued, and so is _Where The Present Meets The Past,_ in which I destroyed Valinor- okay, so I put it back together, lay off- and ditch all the Elves (and a few Maiar) in Roman times. So far...well, just go read, willya? Please? Look, I have added a few OCs, but they are strictly non-Sue/Stu, to the best of my abilities.  
  
Please also note that I have exams coming up, and so I might be updating less for the next few weeks, although I shall still do as much as is mentally and physically possible. Signed, SR.


	2. Seeing Through Agony

Disclaimer: I own zilch- except the jailors and the plot.  
  
A/N: Well, here I am again! I'd planned to work on my other fic, but got such a huge response to this one that I decided to give you all another chapter. **WARNING:** things are about to get painful. Do NOT proceed if you dislike seeing Elves being- er- exposed to rather sadistic orcs. And thanks to all who said that they like this story!  
  
Seeing Through Agony.  
  
Legolas hung from the ceiling of the tiny room.  
  
The manacles securing his ankles cut into his flesh, the dulled edges bringing biting stabs of pain whenever he tried to move. However, that was not the main cause for the child's fear.  
  
He couldn't breathe.  
  
He had to force the air to enter his lungs. A dead weight seemed to press down from above, slowly bearing him to black suffocation. The Prince had no idea what was causing this, and if he had, it would have only served to terrify him more.  
  
Because his own body was betraying him.  
  
The weight of his internal organs was being dragged onto his lungs. His physical structure had thrust them away from normal places with this sudden reversal of up and down, so that he was, in effect, choking himself. Added to that, gravity was pulling excess blood to his head, gently, slowly, but undeniably crushing the delicate brain cells.  
  
For the child, all that he knew was that he had to use precious energy to gasp in what air he could take. More was being used as Elven healing abilities kicked in, subconsciously ordering some of the more minor arteries to his skull to shut down in order to prevent serious injury. Others had already diverted the blood that had been stopped from reaching his head to the muscles in his chest, tensing them to remove some of the weight from the weaker breathing organs. He knew that his body should be trying to heal itself, but it didn't help him inhale all that much.  
  
He gazed at the door in insane desperation, coupled with a deep apprehension. If the orcs came back, they would inflict more pain on him, yet if they did not he could die, for all he knew. But surely they would want to hurt him more...  
  
When the entrance to the room was suddenly opened, he immediately recoiled, wondering how he could have been so stupid as to _want_ these goblins to return. The largest was double his height at least, and all six of them had skin-crawling, hideous grins on their foul faces. Their leader strode quickly over the short stretch of floor between the Prince and the door. Catching at the Elfling's fair features with a filthy claw, he leered at the child, clearly savouring the discomfort and fear flickering in their prisoner's eyes. Turning to an accomplice, he nodded at the ropes binding the captive's feet.  
  
The underling slashed the bonds with one quick stroke of his sword. Legolas would have fallen to the ground had it not been for Tralek's hold under his chin. As it was, he went from upside-down to right way up in less than a second, causing light-headed giddiness to sweep through him as his blood decided to exit his brain and travel to his feet. Reeling (and feeling rather dizzy), he tried to see what was happening. Before he succeeded, however, he was roughly yanked out of the room, and dragged down a crudely built stone passage. The orcs took great delight in bashing him into the walls, and he was covered in bloody scrapes when they reached their destination.  
  
Tossed to the floor, Thranduil's son wondered where his father was, hoping that the older Elf was in less pain, even if that chance did seem extremely remote. But all thoughts of that kind were driven entirely out of his mind at what came next.  
  
The whip screamed down, plunging into his soft back. He yelped, and tried to wriggle away, before an orcish foot pinned him there. Telling himself firmly not to show his feelings, he bit his lip and blinked away his tears. Then the lash fell again. And again. Soon his young back was a tattered mess of blood. Ribbons of skin trailed, and scraps of muscle hung raggedly over his sides. It was a horrendous scene.  
  
And the child was screaming.  
  
Legolas couldn't help it. Every jarring stroke tore another agonised cry from his burning body, each new contact hammered into his consciousness, until all that he could be sure of was that he hurt, and they beat that knowledge into him with a savage joy. They laughed madly at his sounds, enjoying the harsh cruelty of mutilating one so relatively young.  
  
If there's one thing orcs like, it's an Elf to torture.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Thranduil ached all over.  
  
Actually, the Elvenking felt like a Balrog had set up camp on his left arm, after getting there via his neck. All the skin on his left arm was either flayed or non-existent. Nerve endings shrieked at him, sending relentless messages of the damage caused when the goblins had paid him brutal attention. Not interrogating, merely venting hatred of the Firstborn and anger at being constantly fought against on the unfortunate King of Mirkwood.  
  
They had certainly vented. Suffice to say that Oropher's son now owned one useless arm, a raw cut on the back of his neck, and a set of shredded back muscles. The muscles had been yanked forcefully out of him, and the arm had been partially skinned. All in all, it was one very pained Elf lord who leaned against the corner of his crude cell, thinking about war.  
  
Because it _was _war...or had been, and they had lost it. His people would even now be on the move, straggling bunches wandering, tired and forlorn, over the plains to Lothlorien, meandering round the Misty Mountains to seek the Golden Wood, and the protection of the Lady who ruled it. They would be faltering, but not stopping, instead persisting in their quest to find safety for their kin.  
  
Then again, a very few might be headed for Rivendell. In case of excessive danger around the range's mighty foot, one of the emergency passages had had its exit halfway through the mountains, meaning that any who took it had no choice but to press on toward Imladris. True, that path was normally more treacherous than the straight- sort of ...relatively- road to Lorien, but it had been a necessary precaution against losing too many of his subjects.  
  
At least, it had seemed so for the last century._ They shall have the shelter of the Three, by all means, and that is more than they had with me...ai! Why is it that I cannot see sense until they have been scattered, and I can no longer help them? I should have moved my people to the other Elven realms...  
  
Nay, they would not have accepted that. They would have remained, no matter what. I could not have shifted them.  
  
_Thranduil somehow managed a small smile at that last thought, fondly recalling what was politely called Mirkwood persistence, and otherwise known as 'cursed Sindar stubbornness'. Well, he supposed it_ could_ be supremely irritating when you were trying to get twenty soldiers to act _sensibly_ instead of recklessly for once in their lives, and they insisted on going ahead with the original plan- namely, charge directly into the spiders' nest and risking getting pounced on.  
  
The agony in his skinned arm expanded as he rested it gently on the filth- ridden floor, and he started briefly, jolts of lame seeming to skitter up the stripped flesh and wrap around the bone, before dissolving into a horrible numbness that signified severe infection beginning to take hold there- he _thought_.  
  
Suddenly, huge, dirty claws wrapped about the bars in the tiny window that allowed the orcs to see their captives without being seen themselves.  
  
"So, little worm," sneered the creature at the door, "not so proud now, eh? Not now that you've seen what we orcs can _do_. All high and mighty- not any more! That brat of yours found _that_ out pretty quick..."  
  
The Elf leapt to his feet and bounded to the door. His face scant inches from that of the beast taunting him, he glared at his captor, lips drawing back into a feral snarl as he tried to mask the anxiety in his mind.  
  
"_What did you **do** to him_?" he hissed, eyes boring into the goblin. "If you hurt him, I swear by Manwe that no torment you inflict will prevent me from running you down and ripping the heart from your chest! Leave him be, you twisted creation of Morgoth, you- you_ mockery_! Leave him be..."  
  
For an eternal moment, the orc flinched back, cowering at the King's wrath. A Sinda Lord, fully enraged, was_ not_ something to be taken lightly, especially when said Sinda Lord was only three inches from your nose. And as for anger levels, Thranduil, in complete health, might well have knocked down the door, taken off the goblins head, and been bursting in on his child five minutes later. If he could _find the way_, that is...  
  
And then the creature regained some courage, although it still spoke from several feet away.  
  
"Screamed like a baby, he did," it drawled, trying to keep a quaver out of its voice. "Lovely sound. Pleadin' for 'is Father, you should have heard it... I would have thought that people in your place were _good _at taking pain. Seems I was wrong. Where's the fun in hurting an Elf if he cries too easily? No fun at all...maybe he'll be harder by the _end_, but then, they're usually softer about then. Whimpering and begging, can't even take a normal beating- your _son _certainly can't, passed out halfway through. Pity he went so fast, though, means we'll have to kill him quicker..."  
  
"SILENCE!"  
  
The Elf's face was contorted in an enraged snarl. His body was pressed flat against the door. His hands were clenched, and he looked as if he would love nothing more than to wrap them around the orcs scrawny neck. If looks could kill, half the people in Dol Guldor would have died from the force of his glare, despite being protected by thick stone walls.  
  
"Be. Quiet."  
  
"What, don't want to hear about your son being whipped? Surely you wouldn't care about _that_..."  
  
The beast was playing on his natural protection instinct now. If an Elf can take harm directed at another, he or she will. The Elvenking hated to learn of his child being injured; it cut to his soul and bit deep. It _hurt _him to think of Legolas in such a state as the orc described- his son did not cry easily.  
  
"Spawn of Melkor, you had best run. No place on Arda will be able to hide you when I am free."  
  
The creature laughed nervously, before turning as if to go. Then, with one quick movement, it twisted back toward him, ripping its claws across his face.  
  
Blood spurted from the wound. Red and fresh, it exploded over his cheeks and chin and trickled into his mouth. It ran into his eyes and even his ears. It tasted metallic and bitter, and he spat it out in disgust. He was half blinded; the liquid was making his vision red. Burning pain was slicing along his features. He could hardly see straight.  
  
The gouges extended from the left side of his jawbone to his right temple, just missing his eyes. The white bone showed clearly through the torn skin. It was excruciatingly painful.  
  
Nevertheless, Thranduil remained standing, watching as his tormentor vanished down the passageway, thoughts of revenge echoing in his mind. _Catch you, torment you, place his agony on your shoulders...  
_  
And then he collapsed to the ground, the burning in his body only superseded by the chill that was consuming his heart.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Legolas awoke biting back screams.  
  
He lay still for a moment, becoming accustomed to the world around him. He was on his back, in the tiny room he was apparently going to occupy for most of his time here. There was almost no light. His limbs felt as if they were going to drop off, and he was surrounded by blood.  
  
Jerking his head up, he immediately regretted the action. Fire seemed to flare up in the tattered flesh of his back, racing up his spine. He yelped, fell, and cried out as the already tender skin made sudden, brutal contact with the hard, rough floor. Particles of stone were rubbed in harshly, and the place appeared to spin crazily. Perhaps worse than the orcs' hard beating was the powder they had rubbed into the wounds. Any quick motion caused unbelievably agonising spasms to rack the young Prince's body. The pain was exquisitely sharp.  
  
Sobs began to shudder through the Elfling's slender frame. Unfortunately, that only aggravated the injuries further, and the child was soon stuffing his fists into his mouth to prevent the screams welling up in his throat from escaping. His back was a mass of torn shreds of muscle, with blood pouring from the welts. Not in serious amounts, but enough to make him feel strangely dizzy. His legs had been sliced at with a sharp knife, many times. All in all, he was in incredible agony, too much to even escape to unconsciousness.  
  
So he lay slumped in his own blood, gasping for breath as the shakings stopped, whispering to the Valar as his only source of comfort.  
  
"Ai...I fear- for my father, and for my own life. Why, why was the Necromancer...allowed to build here...why was he left to the Men and the Elves? _Ai, Elbereth Gilthoniel!_ For we could not abolish all remnants of his power...Alas for Men! That all should pay for Isildur's brief weakness- 'tis wrong, I think, as Ada would say." He smiled weakly. "That Dol Guldor still festers- and indeed, is still used!  
  
"Oh, Manwe, Aule, Orome, Namo, Varda, Yvanna, Vaire, Nienna...your names I am unfit to utter- although I just did, forgive me- creators of the lands I know...ai, ai, I...do not understand! Ada, is Ada still well, still uninjured? I hope that he is, I hope that they have not hurt him- but they will have, and it is all my fault. If I had not fallen, he would be well...and _with me!_ We should still be together, and unhurt._ Together_...  
  
"I cannot help but think that I would rather be with Ada than uninjured...I would be close to him then, be able to touch him, talk to him, hear him_...see_ him. I _long_ to see him- he is my only hope of escape, and he is _my father_! He protected me for years gone and...he was always there for me."  
  
The child gazed up at the roof of his prison, half expecting a Maia to come bursting through it. A moment later, he mentally kicked himself. A Maia was not going to appear simply because he had been praying to the Valar. That would be too much to hope for.  
  
The heavy, shuffling footfalls of an orc floated down to his cell. The Prince huddled back- as best as he could, being flattened against the floor. Blood stuck his back to the remnants of his cloak, the thick red substance leaking from his wounds and over the surrounding floor. Pressing against the floor only caused intense waves of pain to lance throughout his body.  
  
The goblin halted outside his door. Unlocking it, the foul creature paused to enjoy the sight of the Elfling lying in a pool of blood, face contorted in fear and agony. Then it stepped inside and crouched beside him.  
  
Legolas shuddered as the filthy beast pried his mouth open and forced the bitter, disgusting gel that passed for food down his throat. He almost choked on it, but somehow managed to swallow. No sooner had he done so than another handful was shoved into his mouth. He could barely breathe, as more of the slimy substance was crammed down his throat.  
  
Eventually, the feeding stopped. The child lay weak and nauseous on the dirty ground, his eyes closed, shivering violently. His captor picked up the bucket of 'food', and left the room. Legolas only just heard it go. Inhaling was a struggle, taking most of his energy, not unlike being hung upside-down from the ceiling. Air seemed unwilling to come near the stench of the slime that he had been made to eat. The slender boy was by now half asleep. Yawning, he opened his eyes slightly, drifting into an Elvish sleeping trance.  
  
Blackness overcame him.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Litael stood calmly by the door of the cottage. Her husband would be returning soon, from Dol Guldor.  
  
She knew what happened behind the towering walls, of course. It was none of her business, though, and as far as she was concerned, those Elves deserved it. Several hundred years ago, Litael's tribe had lost everything to the Last Alliance. She had not been alive to see it, but the tales had been passed down, mother to daughter, father to son. The little group of Haradrim had hatred in their minds and cruelty in their hearts. Bitter and sadistic, they thrived on the pain inflicted in Sauron's old fortress.  
  
Her dark hair swept back, she watched the road, searching for Avyun. Usually he was home by this hour, unless something held him back. Ah, there he was, striding towards her. Smiling, she ran to meet him.  
  
"My husband, how did you fare today? Why are you late home?"  
  
"My love. Let us enter our hut, and I shall tell you all...today has been prosperous indeed!"  
  
An hour later, sitting by the fire, he told her.  
  
"Yesterday, the Riders captured the so-called 'King' of Mirkwood-_ and_ his son."  
  
"Nay!"  
  
"Yes! They brought both of them to the fortress- and I am one of the lucky ones who was allowed to 'interrogate' the older one."  
  
His eyes glittered wickedly.  
  
"We took the skin off his arm, ripped it away entirely. He cried out...such a sweet sound! It was the orcs that they let near him mostly, but me and Naroun were let in as well, thank the skies! They'd cut the back of his neck, but not so much that he couldn't move, and completely _shredded _his back. I've been up there extra time, just to see him whimper, although he didn't do much of _that_ until Revnug described his son. Speaking of the 'Prince', he got hung up for a while, and then they beat and powdered him. I heard he was screaming like a baby..."  
  
Outside, the black night showed no indication of what had taken place only a few hours before. The silver moon rode high over the forest, wisps of cloud floating around it.  
  
Beyond the forest, tiny groups of Sindar stopped and looked up, unsure why they did so. A sense of dread went through them, and, although it left quickly, they remained uncertain of whether to continue to Lothlorien or return to the woods. At last, they went on their way, but all felt somehow cowardly in doing so.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
The Lady of the Golden Wood stirred in her sleep. Her eyes glanced tiredly about the walls of her chamber, and she rose silently, slipping out of the door.  
  
Exiting the flet, she descended to the ground, gliding like a mist over the soft earth. Brushing softly between the trees, she found that she had reached her Mirror.  
  
She did not waste time wondering_ why_ she had walked there. She simply took the pitcher, filled it from the spring, emptied it into the stone basin, and looked into the depths.  
  
She saw Elves, many of them, straggling around the Misty Mountains to Lorien. She studied them closely, but did not see Thranduil. Now slightly concerned, she checked that the knots of Avari seemed to be safe, then turned her attention elsewhere.  
  
_Thranduil_, she thought,_ son of Oropher. King of Mirkwood, where are you?  
_  
The vision changed.  
  
Now she saw Thranduil, slumped on a crude stone floor. His left arm was red- raw, his back a bloody mess of tattered flesh. His golden hair was clinging to his body with sweat and blood, and he was shuddering with sobs. A faint image of an Elfling appeared to overlay the hideous scene- _he fears for his son_.  
  
Galadriel released the rim of the bowl. Sighing, she studied the stars, looking for even a scrap of hope in their unblemished beauty. The stars had shone for millennia, and would do so forever. While Mirkwood's King languished in Dol Guldor, the stars still gleamed for the Elves.  
  
But now, she had approximately two or three hundred Sindar to prepare for. She turned, mentally readying herself for the confusion that would undoubtedly manifest in the morning when she announced that they were expecting guests. It would be quite difficult to arrange accommodation, but at least they were forewarned, and there had always been the possibility of needing to do so- Thranduil was nothing if not thorough.  
  
Climbing back up to the flet, she almost collided with Celeborn. He smiled gently at her, whispered _Meleth-nin_, and the two of them slipped back into their chambers.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Thranduil was caught in a nightmare.  
  
Nazgul screams rang around his skull. Fear was shooting through him, so sharp it was almost tangible. He looked about wildly, but all he could see was a whirling cloud of black and grey, tinged with crimson. The shrieks bouncing around his brain intensified, the mists parted and...  
  
His father was lying before him, his face twisted slightly under a mask of blood. A broken arrow protruded from the side of his temple. Oropher looked- _surprised._ Startled that the projectile had cut his immortal life short. The shock was evident on his features.  
  
And then it was not Oropher, but his son. Legolas, huddled in a tiny room, body tattered by unrestrained orcish attention.  
  
It took Mirkwood's King a moment to realise that he was projecting his fears, and to remember that an Elf attacked by _unrestrained_, **orcish** attention would most likely be dead from the battering that the goblins would inflict. The results of such administrations were not pretty, to say the least. More like disgusting, horrifying, spine chilling, gruesome, nauseating, hideous, and mangled. It was carnage- even when practised on only one being.  
  
He flicked back to wakefulness.  
  
And then he _remembered.  
_  
_The remnants of the once proud warrior were scattered over the forest floor. He had been literally dismembered, ripped apart by orcs and Wargs.  
  
Entrails, torn apart, had been tossed haphazardly about the glade. The skull had been split open, leaving the brains in a grey, slimy heap. Bones had been plucked of all flesh, muscles clawed into shreds, and the heart and lungs lay free to the elements. All organs had been punctured many times.  
  
"Adar," Thranduil whispered as he surveyed the blood-soaked scene. "Why, Adar? Is there some reason for their doing this?"  
  
"Nay," murmured Oropher. "Nay, they merely love to hurt us, to distress us. They long to destroy us completely."  
  
The young Elf felt tears form in his eyes as he looked at the thinly spread remains. This...for no reason.  
_  
Thranduil felt tears form again. His son was gone. But he was alive, and that was something.  
  
Life is hope.  
  
Even the dimmest glimmer of a chance strengthened him somewhat.  
  
Legolas would not become like that warrior in the glade. He would not allow it.  
  
Together, they would fight their way out. They would escape.  
  
And that was some small comfort.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
A/N: Yup, I FINALLY updated. After an EXTREMELY stressful week. Ugh, I hate exams. Although the REVISION is actually worse, and **that** is what I've been doing. Argh. And then my parents restricted computer times SO that I could revise. Which I hate doing. Yay, kindly note the sarcasm.  
  
Sigh. Look, I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude. I just...anyone else got exams? You know what it's like, trying to write and cram and all at once. Utterly AWFUL.  
  
Signed,  
Starwind Rohana. 


	3. Hope is Free

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Tolkien does though- ask him if you can have it. Unfortunately, he's dead, so you might have some trouble getting through...I don't think Oxford graveyard is in the telephone directory.  
  
A/N: Some people seem to think that I have finished my exams. This is not so. I have actually STARTED them. And boy, do I the hell wish I had not. Or should that be have not? /Looks puzzled. / Aaaaanyway. Er...on with the fic! **WARNING:** More torture included. Although- just go read. /Puppy eyes. /  
  
Hope is Free.  
  
"_Aaaahhhh!_"  
  
Agonised screams tore around the tiny dungeon. The Elfling they emitted from struggled desperately against the grip of his tormentors, his face contorted and twisted with panic and pain. One of the beasts holding him dug grimy claws into the pale skin, keeping the child still. Frantically, the prisoner jerked against the strong hands pinning him down.  
  
Legolas could not believe the pain.  
  
His body felt as if fire and ice was climbing through it. Intense waves of black agony had long ago stripped him of all reasonable thought. His only concern now was to escape, yet he could not attain that which he currently desired the most. With every second that passed, his terror grew, and with it grew the pain.  
  
Several ribs had cracked under the strain. He was spitting blood from internal injuries, most parts of his brain had shut off in order to cope with the stress, and, if not granted a reprieve soon, he would die.  
  
Die a horrible and bloody death.  
  
A red-hot brand slammed into the side of his head. The Prince cried out sharply, and, in a mad flurry of self-preservation instinct, managed to pull away from those whose sole purpose seemed to be breaking every bone in his body, including the ones that made up his skull.  
  
The orcs had had a bad day. Trouble with a stray pair of Elven archers had depleted their numbers somewhat, as the two had been most unwilling to die. After they had been killed- 'butchered' might be closer- an area of the forest floor had revealed itself to be quicksand, and thirty-three goblins had blundered into it before anyone realised what was going on. Thirty- three might not sound like many, but it is when they are thirty-three of the best axe men that you have. After _that_ had been sorted out, a particularly bold group of woodsmen had decided to ambush the remainder of the troop that had gone out, and the few orcs that had succeeded in returning to Dol Guldor had promptly stormed down to the cells to take out their anger on someone.  
  
Sadly for Legolas, they'd chosen him.  
  
Thranduil's son huddled back, away from the biting whips, away from the chains, away from the agony that did not even grant unconsciousness. He could move no further. His strength was spent.  
  
As the beasts bore down on him, ferocious snarls on their faces, a rough voice snapped out something in the Black Speech. Other voices replied to it, apparently enraged, but they were soon quietened. Then, with heavy footsteps, one of the disgusting creatures paced to him and crouched by the Elfling's bloodied head. Seizing a handful of once-golden hair, it yanked Legolas' head up, so that the child's face was an inch away from the crude features.  
  
"Make no mistake, _Prince_," it hissed, the foul stench of its breath stealing the air from the young Elf's lungs, "this is a temporary reprieve only. I don't want you to die too soon- so you get _one more week._ Enjoy it, because after that..." the orc smiled evilly, "we get to kill you in whatever way we want. And I can guarantee that you won't find it pleasant."  
  
The Prince's eyes closed and he let out a soft moan. No, no, he could not endure another encounter like this one- but he wouldn't be expected to, it would be his execution. Stifling fear exploded in his chest.  
  
His hair was released, and his temple thudded against the cold floor, now slick with scarlet blood. An odd sensation filled him, making him dizzy and clammy. It took him a moment to realise that it was a phenomenon almost never experienced by Elves- sickness. Bile rose in the back of his throat.  
  
The thick iron door slammed shut, but he barely noticed. He was caught up in fear and misery, trying to understand the swirling hum of his thoughts. They were moving too fast for him to keep up with.  
  
And then the icy reality set in: he was going to die.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Thranduil raised his eyes wearily to the grate in the prison door. The Elvenking was both physically and mentally exhausted. He had not been fed for several days, and his hunger was taking its toll.  
  
Normally, four days' starvation would not trouble him, but with all the abuse he was taking on a regular basis, his body needed all the nourishment it could get. It also needed sleep, and constant agony, as well as the distant screams, had kept him awake. His mind was worn out with non-stop pain/sound signals.  
  
Tiredly, he examined the creature regarding him. There was a wicked glint in its' eye.  
  
"Not long now," the beast said casually. "Three days, at the most. Then its 'goodbye, little Elf-scum, and good riddance!'"  
  
Thranduil's head whipped up.  
  
"_What?!_"  
  
The Elf bounded to his feet- before staggering as his weight came onto his legs, which were severely burnt.  
  
"What's this, you didn't know? Would've thought you'd care enough about your _son_ to know when he was going to be killed...Oh, you won't reach him _now_," it added, seeing the Sinda move toward the door, "even if you could get out- which you can't- you wouldn't find your way to his cell...it's half a mile from here, if the passages were straight, but instead there's a nice little maze for you to navigate, and that's supposing you could get hold of the keys!"  
  
Thranduil considered the creature for a moment. _If I could...no, I do not know where they are kept- wait, I do! Mine would be close to **my** door; they do not like to waste time searching on a huge ring...  
_  
Sighing, the King collapsed back onto the hard floor, burying his face in his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched for the guard. The orc had left.  
  
And then the door clanged open, and the filthy beast entered, holding a metal bar, the end of which was red-hot.  
  
The Elvenking did not have time to move away before the heated end was thrust into his lower thigh and twisted cruelly.  
  
Pain erupted, burning and terrible. Thranduil could barely contain his cries. His vision wavered, narrowing out all but the glowing steel and the charring flesh of his limb. Blood began to run, but it had a black, ashy appearance. It had been boiled by the heated steel.  
  
Through a grey haze, he looked up at his tormentor. Leaning close, the creature whispered:  
  
"That's in case you get any _ideas_."  
  
And then it turned on its heel and left the room.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Below the cells, goblins converged. Many merely gulped ale, or tore at dirty meat off grimy bones. They exchanged news of the prisoners above, laughing heartily at foul tales. Some gathered instruments of torture and left the 'cavern', out to the Elves and Men.  
  
One little group ran their fingers over the blades of dull, serrated knives, or examined poisoned whips. Conserving in unusually quiet tones, they glanced about them frequently, as if worried that others might overhear their conversation. Smiling evilly, they imagined their soon-to- be victim's screams.  
  
One chuckled as it scrutinised a long staff with a blade at each end.  
  
"Soon, little squeaker. Soon."  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
A slim, pale hand slipped gently between the bars of the heavy door. Fumbling slightly, it grasped at the key that the last guard had so carelessly left on a tiny ledge next to the door, instead of hanging it on the hook out of reach. The niche might be at an awkward angle, but the room's occupant was desperate.  
  
Thranduil held his breath as his fingers closed about the object. Removing it carefully, he pressed his face against the grate, peering down as he inserted the key into the lock. He gave a sigh of relief as the door gave a _click, clump_, and swung slightly open.  
  
The orc's intention had been to cripple the Elvenking, and to some extent it had succeeded. But the intense need to rescue his son from death had blocked out all pain. The Sinda was working around his injuries as best he could, which was remarkably well, even for an Elf.  
  
Limping out of the small place that had held him for several weeks, Thranduil shut the door quietly and walked up the passage, all the while looking around him cautiously. He did not wish to attract the attention of a goblin until he had the advantage in position.  
  
One, apparently one of the 'errand runners', turned the corner not far away. The Sinda melted back into the shadows. The gangling little creature almost darted past him- and was caught.  
  
A hand suddenly snaked out of the darkness and wrapped around its neck, dragging it backwards. Another clamped over its mouth. The orc lashed out violently, but its unseen assailant was skilled and strong.  
  
"Where is the Prince of Mirkwood?" asked a soft, lethal voice. The creature considered its options. Tell...or die.  
  
"D-down in the w-west quarter..."  
  
The hand on its neck tightened painfully.  
  
"Take me there."  
  
Thranduil followed directly behind the small, snivelling goblin, one arm still trapping its neck. He made a mental note of when the tunnel sloped up or down, but other than that he concentrated solely on the beast leading him._ I cannot let him escape to tell...but warriors of the Greenwood do not kill from behind like assassins! And besides, we do not know the way out- ha, I can trap another with little difficulty. But-  
_  
The King was broken out of his thoughts when his 'guide' stopped.  
  
"Right down there." The creature pointed, shaking badly.  
  
"Thank you." To save time, and to be on the safe side, Thranduil broke its neck.  
  
Dropping the limp body, the Elvenking slipped silently along the damp corridor. Stopping at the first door he came to, he glanced inside...and gasped in shocked horror.  
  
His son was huddled in a corner, his body a mess of bloodied wounds and battered skin. His head was bowed, and his pale golden tresses stuck to his back, drenched in scarlet blood. His slender frame was shuddering, and the older Elf's sharp ears detected the sound of repressed sobs. The child was weeping quietly, finally giving in to his fear of what was to come. His emotions had been held in check too long, and now they overwhelmed him.  
  
_Oh, Elbereth, he is younger than I thought. How in Arda did I not notice? He is my **son**, my own flesh and blood, and I somehow forgot that he is a child.  
_  
Gazing at the sorry scene, Thranduil felt overcome by what he had not realised, and, more importantly, what his child had gone through. He had thought himself ready for anything, but he had not been prepared for this. With an extreme effort of will, he managed to tear his eyes from the boy, and raised a hand to remove the key from the hook.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Legolas did not look up as the door swung open. He knew what was coming, but he didn't want to see it- didn't want to see his death coming down on him, shattering his mind in the process. He didn't want to let them spot the tears that still lingered in his eyes, did not wish them to know that he was more fearful than they would have thought from his silence these last few days. The Prince's calm façade was merely a cover for the horrible wear of his feelings.  
  
The feet stopped in the entrance, and the Elfling shivered, wishing that they would not prolong this end in such a way. The waiting bit at his nerves, and he knew that he would have preferred it if they had just gone directly ahead with what they were going to do. This agony of having to know his doom was there and was deliberately presenting him with an uncertain repose was terrible.  
  
Then the other crossed the floor and knelt quietly beside him. The child tensed, awaiting the first blow, but whoever it was made no move to strike him. Curious, even after all he had been through, Mirkwood's Prince raised his head slightly and looked at the being next to him.  
  
_Pale corn-coloured tresses; white, bloodied skin; fair features crumpled with sorrow; a hand that rose to his face and brushed away the copper- stained locks...  
_  
"Ada?"  
  
The boy's voice was tremulous and weak, but his father heard him, and pulled his son gently into a warm embrace. He had to be careful not to aggravate any wounds still left on Legolas' slim body, but they had been apart too long to simply greet each other with words. They both needed the security that only another family member or a close friend could give them, and so father and son held each other, cherishing the warmth that spread through them at finally being together.  
  
"Oh, _ion-nin_, I thought...but that is of no consequence now, you are as well as can be expected...you are _alive_, and that I am grateful for- thank Iluvatar for that gift. It is strange, is it not, how we rarely life while we have it, and ask those who make it good why they sometimes take it from those we love? For we _will _see them again, whether it is after our death, or if we ever have leave to sail to Valinor, or if Mandos sees fit to allow them another life in Middle-Earth...we shall see them again, and yet for you to die would have torn me apart, my son..."  
  
"It is well, Ada, _I _am well, and you...oh, Ada, you are hurt! Why did they do this to you? Surely they are not as brutal as that! Or rather...I should not be surprised at what they have done, Valar know they are hateful enough..."  
  
The pair simply sat there, letting the tears that they both had to cry course down their cheeks, soaking into the other's tears and streaming down to the floor.  
  
"_My child, my little Greenleaf, how I have missed you..._"  
  
"Ada? Ada, we cannot remain here...they will be coming soon, you must escape!"  
  
"Yes, I must. And so must you. I did not have a poker thrust into my leg for nothing." Thranduil cursed the words the moment that they were out of his mouth. He had intended to be strong for his child, not cause him worry by listing his injuries!  
  
Legolas frowned at the words, but chose to disregard them in favour of helping the King to his feet and offering assistance as his father hobbled towards the door. The older Elf must have been finding it incredibly difficult to move, and his son marvelled that he had somehow found his way to his cell without collapsing halfway there.  
  
The two Avari made slow progress as they stumbled up the passage, pausing for a brief moment when they reached the corpse of the goblin that had led the Elvenking to the boy. The Elfling realised that the two would-be- escapees had no chance of getting beyond a few tunnels before they were recaptured- already his sensitive Elven ears could hear the orcs beginning to make their way up to his cell, assuming that he was still imprisoned. If they were going to leave Dol Guldor, they had to move fast. And yet his father was in no fit state to sustain, or even reach, the pace that they would need to set. No, their only hope was to hide in some old storeroom, and wait for their pursuers to pass them by.  
  
The Prince's mind worked furiously. They could not take refuge too close to the carcass, but nor could they be too far away. Their hunters would be expecting them to get as far from the body as possible, but too close and, if one found them, the attacking forces would be more concentrated. They had to find a plausible and effective middle ground, and reach it fast. The child swiftly came to the conclusion that a small chamber, used for stocking the slop that was fed to the prisoners, would be admirable for the purpose.  
  
It had been well over two weeks since he had passed by it as the orcs dragged him back from a beating, but it took more than a few days of indecisive agony to upset his memory and his sense of direction. Quickly and surely, the Elfling led his father to the cramped little room. They concealed themselves behind a barrel.  
  
Legolas estimated that they had been in Dol Guldor for twenty-four days; just over three weeks. During that time, both had been almost constantly exposed to brutality, starvation, thirst, and torture. They were immensely weakened in body, and they had also undergone the close presence of the Nazgul several times. There was no way in Arda that they were walking out of the fortress just yet.  
  
But he supposed it was better than what he had been awaiting in his small prison. Life was good, and he had no intention of losing it to those odious beasts. He intended instead to hold on to it as long as he could.  
  
And the hope his father had brought now burned warmly in his chest, whispering to him of home.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Lord Celeborn was not feeling completely happy.  
  
He was waiting for approximately three hundred Elves from a kingdom that Sauron had successfully invaded. Almost all of them could fight unusually well- so well, in fact, that they had acquired the habit of hunting and killing Ungoliant's descendants as a pastime, often undertaken when the warriors were irritated, bored, or had nothing better to do. The Lord of Lothlorien was, therefore, entirely justified in feeling slightly nervous as he anticipated the signals that would tell him that the bedraggled Avari from Thranduil's realm had actually arrived in the Golden Wood.  
  
"You do not relish the thought of their coming."  
  
Celeborn did not bother to look round. In fact, he rather pitied the Nandar/Silvian/Sindar mixture that he knew were but hours from the fringes of the forest. They had lost their home, and Celeborn could sympathise with them most deeply. But she was right; he was not looking forward to the sudden increase in accommodation and feeding that the new arrivals would require. Although they were accomplished hunters by any standards, all of them had been travelling for almost a month, and would have to rest before becoming actively independent.  
  
"No, Galadriel," he murmured, "I do not entirely look forward to it. But they are our kin, and not so distantly, either. It is our duty as relatives and allies to offer them protection. And in truth," he swung to face his wife, "I was thinking of inviting some of them over here anyway. We could do with some action for once. Serenity has its place, but there are times when one wishes simply to enjoy oneself, and what better way to do that than to ask those who enjoy throwing their older siblings in the well over for a while? True, I did not anticipate _all _of them, but when they find that they are in non-threatening surroundings, with no orcs to chase, they have a tendency to become quite amusing. If you appreciate being soaked on a regular basis, that is."  
  
"If you wished for excitement, then you should have gone to Imladris," she returned. "The last time our daughter visited, she appeared quite relieved to be away from the twins' wild antics. If you recall, she informed us that the fountain in one if the less private gardens seemed incapable of retaining its usual colour. And that appeared to be only one of their tricks."  
  
"I did not desire to wake on the day following my arrival to find that my hair had turned orange and my sheets had mysteriously migrated outside to one of the offshoots of the Brunien."  
  
Galadriel smiled in an extremely disconcerting manner.  
  
Celeborn never asked her what she was planning, because as soon as he opened his mouth, one of the Galadhrim dropped out of the higher branches of the tree they were in, landing in a bow before them, and, at Galadriel's nod, proceeded to inform the pair that the refugees were but two miles from Lothlorien's borders. This put a halt to any type of casual conversation, as many of the residents of the Elven city concealed in the forest were hurried out to assist in getting those who required their aid inside the wood.  
  
Before long, everywhere was a hive of activity. Celeborn raced through the mêlée and joined the Elves in the process of leaving. They were so distracted that they hardly noticed their Lord, and for that the Sinda was grateful. Sometimes, one had to forget ones' station and enjoy the feeling of anonymity. In the midst of an exodus to bring three hundred Avari into ones' home was perhaps not the most excellent time, but it was the first he had had for quite a while, and he _loved _it. Simply being capable of running to help another without being questioned, being allowed to toss aside all careful, rather unemotional masks that he had to wear most of the day- it was true exhilaration, and he revelled in it.  
  
Because so many Galadhrim had been positioned near the edge of the wood, it being a two-day journey to the city, Celeborn was part of the second wave of Elves to meet the evacuees. The huge crowd that greeted them one-third of the way into the forest was a mingled gathering of Mirkwood Elves and Lothlorien Elves, all looking completely exhausted, none more so than a group of Nandar that had encountered thirty Wargs upon exiting the passage that they had taken. All, however, appeared grateful for the extra assistance.  
  
The Lord of Lothlorien threaded between the clusters of injured and those aiding them, looking for a certain three Elves that he was sure would not leave their subjects to fend for themselves- but he could not find them. They were nowhere in sight. Turning, and also feeling rather alarmed, he scanned the large group, until he spotted a somewhat familiar head of pale sandy hair. With a relieved smile, he moved swiftly toward Thranduil's wife. As he drew nearer, however, he slowed, a frown forming on his face.  
  
He had not realized before in the huge gathering, but Lothmiren was alone. Her husband and son were nowhere to be seen. Celeborn, by now extremely worried, swiftly wove his way over to the Nanda/Sinda hybrid.  
  
"Lothmiren? Where is King Thranduil? And where is your son?"  
  
She looked up at him with empty eyes.  
  
"They are gone."  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Unknown to anybody, at the same time that Lothlorien's Lord was questioning his mother as to his whereabouts, Legolas was just waking up.  
  
He stirred slightly, his raising his head gently from his father's chest. Thranduil still slumbered; emotional and physical exertion had taken a tremendous toll on the Elvenking's health. The trauma that his child had endured was minor by comparison.  
  
The Elfling just watched his father quietly for a while, observing the rise and fall of the Sinda Lord's chest as he breathed peacefully. He was finally at rest after being under stress and incredible pain for far too long for any being, whatever the race, to constantly bear alone without some cause for sanity and survival. Legolas was immensely glad that his father had borne it with no apparent ill effects, merely needing sleep and a quiet atmosphere for a time. Preferably a relatively long one, which, in the two Elves' cases, meant anything from two to six hours.  
  
After a while, the Prince heard the noise he had been dreading, but at the same time anticipating the interruption with an extremely urgent part of his mind.  
  
The orcs that took charge of feeding were beginning to head for the supply rooms.  
  
In other words, Legolas and Thranduil needed to get out, and swiftly. The child reached out and tapped his father's arm nervously. When that brought no reaction, he shook the older Elf in a gentle, anxious manner. As the King moved his head slightly, regarding his son briefly, Legolas gave a soft sigh of relief, aiding his Ada to his feet.  
  
The two of them meandered over to the entrance, leaning into each other. Their bodies were still recovering from the abuse, and even if the Elfling _had_ had longer to recuperate, he was still weak and unsteady, as loath as he might be to admit it. Thranduil was in a rather worse state of health- his body had been subjected to severe pain far more recently than his son's had. Another obstacle came in the form of the wound in the Elvenking's leg. During the journey through the fortress, and the subsequent night in an infested storeroom, the slowly healing injury had acquired a most unwanted host of guests- parasites.  
  
His father was limping heavily now, bravely attempting to keep some of the weight off the afflicted limb. The blackened hole now seethed with tiny insects that burrowed into the unfortunate Sinda's flesh. Glittering and vicious, small but agonizing, they ate away under the skin. Invisible jaws worked slowly through muscle, bit by bit immobilizing the leg. A foul substance sweated from the little bodies, helping the living tissue to dissolve. Legolas felt sick when he saw it. The stench was almost unbelievable.  
  
And then they were struggling up the tunnel. Thranduil's teeth were clenched, and his face bore a grimace of indescribable agony. His son felt suddenly frightened, an icy ball seeming to form in his stomach. What if his father died?  
  
_Ada!  
  
Oh, Ada, what has he done to you? You cannot live like this- you need medical attention, you need a **healer**, and all you have is a child who only knows the bare basics of medical care! Oh, Adar, if you were to leave me...I could not survive that, I could not! Oh, Valar...please. Do not let him die. He has led our people for so long, he has brought me up and loved me, he does not deserve to leave this world in pain- he does not deserve to leave it at all.  
_  
The boy's thoughts were distracted as the Elvenking gently halted him, and then indicated silently to a half-hidden door, mostly concealed in shadow. The Sinda stepped forward and nudged it. The door swung open with a creak that made the two Elves wince, at both the hideous sound and the loud volume.  
  
The pair hobbled inside. There was grain in the small chamber, held in coarse sacks. There were also a few barrels of water. Neither had any idea as to what orcs could _want _with grain and water, but the place appeared to be a relatively safe refuge considering the present situation, so both simply decided that it would be easier- and less pointless- not to ask questions. They just jammed a few bags against the door, lit a candle (somebody had left one, along with a tinderbox, beside the _other _storeroom's door, presumably to light it up), and considered their surroundings.  
  
Completely without warning, Thranduil slumped forward, his previous steadfast silence giving way to a tortured cry- and it was no ordinary scream. It was as though a thousand Elves were shrieking through his father's lips, and Legolas blanched at the horrific noise. He bent down, whispering, trying to quiet the other so that he could aid him without worrying if the orcs were coming, but Thranduil was utterly beyond reach, all his mind apparently succumbing to the pain that was consuming him whole. His son panicked, fear and anxiety racing through him. Catching at the infested wound, he dug his fingers into it, instinct telling him that he had to cause pain to stop it. He scooped the parasites from the Sinda's flesh, tearing them away, and as he worked, his father's cries ringing in his ears, he began to shout.  
  
"You shall _not_ have him! You shall _not _take his life! He is not yours, he belongs to this land and this land will claim him!_ Do you understand me?!_"  
  
It was not just horror and sorrow pulsing through him, it was rage. How _dare_ these tiny, beastly, insignificant creatures try to take his Ada from him?! He would show them. He would tear them from his father's body and crush them under his feet. He would make them pay.  
  
Then Thranduil stopped screaming.  
  
And his eyes...closed.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
A/N: YAY! EXAMS ARE OVEEEEEERRRR!!! At last, I do not have to cram every night and worry all day!  
  
Seriously though, I was actually getting headaches what with all the stress. Sad, I know, seeing as I'm only **thirteen**. But there you are. England's stress problems are beginning to imprint on her younger generations, evidently. And they often take the form of painful headaches. Ow...and I think I've failed English.  
  
/Proudly/ I did a cliffy! /Prods cliffhanger. / Or at least _I _think it's a cliffhanger. I am pleased, I am. Maybe you shall now all review to see what happens next. And until I get twenty-four reviews, preferably twenty-eight, I shall not proceed. Ahem.  
  
I am now going to stop being incoherent. Many of you (or at least eleven) have said that you like the writing and especially the torture. I am honoured. Seriously, I am. It's really nice and encouraging. Nice? More like lovely. It makes me feel all self-accomplished inside, because you, who all enjoy reading, have approved it. Some of you, (looks at Martina and THECheeseTurkey), have stated that you find me a good writer for being thirteen. That is...a really incredible feeling for me. And as for everyone else- your comments are valued, as they are well written and not flames. And they make me feel all warm. And fuzzy.  
  
And you all seem to like it, so...oh, well, I guess I'd better continue it fast!  
  
Starwind Rohana, who gets hyper on Cola if there is enough around. 


	4. Morals and Priorities

Disclaimer: I own zilch. Except the plot. And Lothmiren. But nothing else.  
  
A/N: Whoa! I posted the last chapter up, and the next morning I had SEVEN more reviews! Seven! Go me! And you! But mostly you!  
  
Hey, all my readers are worried about Thranduil! Well, now you get to find out about what I did to him...and by the way, this part might be quite fast- paced.  
  
/Smites keyboard. / Blast...I can't do accents unless the spell-check puts them in.  
  
And I _PASSED ENGLISH_! Wahoo! Yippee!  
  
Morals and Priorities.  
  
The dark felt...nice. Comforting, and safe, like the embrace of a mother when one is too small to comprehend danger and death, but understands love.  
  
There was a little light. Some of it came from a flickering source above and behind him. The remainder came from a tiny pinprick of warmth and solemn joy, and patience. There were feelings around both of them. He knew that, by natural selection of favoured emotion, he should wish to move towards the second light...but he didn't.  
  
The first offered pain, huge quantities of it. It promised him dangers and sorrows and hatred and terrible agony. Yet somehow it also seemed the most preferable one. There was another, surprisingly complex, group of feelings and longings that lay around it. He wanted to get closer to it, to grasp it...but he was being pulled steadily away, and he could not break free of the force hauling him to the second light.  
  
So he struggled. And, in doing that, he had to admit his identity once more.  
  
Thranduil groaned slightly. It had been so easy just to forget who he was, and so simple to understand when he no longer understood sentience. But of course, now he _was_ sentient again, and he knew exactly _where _he was and _what _he was doing there. He was on the way to the Halls of Mandos, and he was trying not to finish the trip. He was there because his body had been unable to cope with his son's rough treatment of his infested leg, along with all the other injuries he had sustained. And he wanted to leave here and get back to being properly alive.  
  
Unfortunately, that did not appear to be an option.  
  
The flow of the invisible stream of power that was tugging him gently through the blackness jerked at him insistently. He pulled back. He did not want to face death just yet. He had too many reasons for life.  
  
His son was trapped in a building full of orcs and Ringwraiths, and probably would not last more than a day without his father. His wife was, to the best of his knowledge, still alive. There were many Elves whom he had led for hundreds of years, and they could not possibly all remain in Lorien for too long. Mirkwood had been held by their strength alone. In less than three centuries, if unguarded, she would be overrun with all the fell beasts of Melkor and Sauron. He had friends whom he was loath to leave. And life was- there was no other word for it- _exhilarating._  
  
He had plenty of motives for staying. But he lacked the ability to do so.  
  
_No! I have fought the creatures of Morgoth for thousands of years, I cannot simply** die!** For that would leave my son alone to die, and...he is too young for that! He should not be taken from life- and neither shall I. He shall not lose his father...none ought to experience **that** grief at all, and certainly not a child of his age. But I...who can say if I still have the strength to remain?  
  
I must have. For my son.  
_  
The Elvenking somehow forced his exhausted _fea_ to stop moving forward. He never truly understood what he did, but he managed to halt the deterioration of his body's system before he went beyond recall. In his chest, his heart beat back to life.  
  
It was barely noticeable at first, but the tiny flickering allowed him to draw in a cool breath of sweet, soft air. The darkness slowly passed, becoming a kind of fiery light. He was dragged backwards, and, as realization came, he felt as though he could laugh and laugh and laugh. But he did not.  
  
Instead, he opened his eyes to the shadows that danced eerily over the crude ceiling. Crimson and golden streaks lanced the rough stone, decorated with the midnight hues where the light did not penetrate. Rippling over the rock, they caused the semblance of the calm roof of the quietly lapping sea, when one lies beneath the waves and watches the silver and blue textures, ever changing. Except that this was a somewhat sharper contrast.  
  
Swiftly, his attention was drawn to the soft sobs near his ribs. A warm kind of salty water was trickling down his side, and there was an obvious weight on his chest, though not so great as to prevent his breathing. Whatever it was...  
  
And then Thranduil _knew_.  
  
It was Legolas. His child's head was resting on his father's ribcage, and tears were pouring from the Elfling's eyes. The tiny frame trembled like a leaf, shaken with practically inaudible cries of mourning for the parent he had supposedly lost. The boy was huddled beside the Sinda Lord, his warm body seeming unnaturally frail, pressed as it was to the Elvenking's body. He was a child who had had everything taken from him, and he was giving the last security in his life the only gift he had left.  
  
The heartbroken tears that flowed thickly from his eyes.  
  
The older Elf stiffened almost imperceptibly. His son was in a worse condition than he had thought. Grief was tearing the child apart, eating him away from the inside. The magnitude of it stunned the Sinda into silence- for a moment.  
  
He sat up, his muscles aching from long misuse. Before the Elfling had realised what was going on, his father's arms were wrapped tightly around him, holding him close to Thranduil's body. The tiny boy started in shock, and then he relaxed, leaning forward into the warm embrace. Emotions welled up suddenly, and with surprising abundance. Joyful tears coursed down the Elvenking's cheeks, running into his son's corn-coloured tresses, before mingling with the tears on his child's wet face. Both could hardly believe that they were together again, even if it _was_ in Dol Guldor. Life and love were enough to make them forget where they were, however briefly.  
  
"My son, oh, my little Greenleaf... I did not mean to cause you such sorrow- I am so sorry, I... I _love you_, my child; always remember that, no matter what happens. It does not matter where you are; I shall _never_ forget you. Never."  
  
"Ada...Ada, your eyes were shut...I thought- I thought that you were _dead_, Ada, I thought you were gone. I thought that they had _killed_ you. I thought that _I_ had killed you."  
  
"No, Legolas...if anything, you probably saved my life. Those beasts would have sapped my strength beyond hope of recovery if you had not removed them. You are not to blame, I am. I was not strong enough to protect you..."  
  
"Protect me from what?"  
  
"From the knowledge of close death...from losing one close to you..."  
  
They remained silent for a while, drawing courage and power from each other's bodies. They both desperately needed the contact; each clung to the energy and life and care and warmth projected by the other. They held on to every feeling that was offered, cherishing the individual moments that they spent in their tight embrace.  
  
Finally they pulled reluctantly apart, knowing that it would be folly to remain in such a hold when both had to rest- and, if even remotely possible, to nourish themselves later. Thranduil dug a sort of nest into the small heap of sacks on the floor, pressed Legolas into it, blew out the single candle, burrowed down beside his child, and slept.  
  
It was a tired, spent kind of sleep, with vague, undefined glimmers of dreams.  
  
When the pair awoke, it was quite a while later. Both felt somewhat refreshed after the peaceful night. Their minds were clear and startlingly energetic, as if they had been given three days' sleep, rather than a few hours.  
  
A nasty side effect of this clear-headed state was that the two were starving, extremely thirsty, and had developed a full awareness of _exactly_ how much trouble they were in. When one is half-dead, one does not care much whether one is caught. There is a definite sense of urgency, but one does not fully think this feeling through- one acknowledges it and moves on, trying to work with it. The pair of Elves were no longer anywhere remotely near death- although that situation could quickly be rectified. But the fact was, they were free to think on otherwise trivial matters...hunger included.  
  
Legolas lit the candle, seized one of the tough bags and fumbled with the stitched- up opening. His father began attempting to pry the top off a barrel. The rough wood bruised and cut at his fingertips, but he persisted, drawn by the smell and sound of the water sloshing about inside. He was so engrossed in his task, he paid no attention when his child succeeded in tearing open the sack, scattering old grain over the floor. He merely continued in prying at the wooden lid, which had been securely fastened down with small latches.  
  
When he finally managed to break it open, he turned to the wheat. His son had already eaten a few handfuls. Thranduil scooped some up and chewed at it hungrily, gulping a little water as he did so. Neither really noticed that the liquid was stale, and the grain shrivelled and dry. More than twenty years the sacks and barrels had lain there, left by a hunter who had thought to live in the fortress, avoiding the goblins, and hidden from all. His plan had not worked, but for six months he had survived. Now two Elves feasted on his gatherings.  
  
Before long, the pair stopped their ravenous eating, and, checking that the door was indeed secure, sat down to discuss their most pressing concern: getting out of Dol Guldor.  
  
The Elvenking considered the problem for a moment.  
  
"The paths leading up- and therefore probably out- are at the centre of the building, from what I could make out. The network immediately surrounding the core certainly slopes upward slightly. The difficulty will be navigating the more complicated areas whilst avoiding the orcs. Sauron designed this building cunningly- the most complex parts are nearest the exit to the cells, so that any attempting to find their way out would be confused by the suddenly complicated passage systems. I passed by them on my way to find you."  
  
"In that case, Ada, should we not find one who is familiar with the architecture of this fortress, and persuade them to lead us out?"  
  
"We would have trouble discovering a goblin that was willing to both guide us to the exit and keep quiet afterwards. No, our best hope is to either catch one and _force _it to lead us out, or to try and find our own way out. I would suggest the first option."  
  
"But would it remain silent about our escape? Ada, if it will not keep our exit a secret, and we cannot allow it to tell it's masters, then...what do we do? We do not seem to have any choices. We will be recaptured."  
  
"No. We shall not. The creature shall not be left alive to convey word of us."  
  
"Ada! We are Elves, and you are the King of Mirkwood. We cannot attack from behind, as assassins do! Neither can we kill an unarmed being, even if it is an orc. Do you not remember what you told me two centuries ago? _We are not like the spawn of Morgoth. We must keep ourselves from becoming like them, no matter how hard we fight them. _You told me that, father, and I have not forgotten it. To defeat the Nazgul- we must avoid becoming them."  
  
"Legolas...I do remember. But our main priority is to leave this Valar- forsaken place. We do not have time to otherwise restrain the creature. Morals come second. Understood? I will _not_ have you die merely because the Elves do not normally kill from behind!"  
  
The Elfling lowered his gaze to the floor. Thranduil could see the turmoil flicking through his features. Truth be told, the Elvenking was facing a similar dilemma. He had felt none of this inner quandary on morals when trying to find his son- he had been too concerned with needing to remove the child from the cell and finding them both a safe hiding place. Now, however...leaving Dol Guldor was important, but was he really prepared to give up his convictions on fairness and fighting? He wasn't sure.  
  
"No, little Greenleaf, we have to do this. It is the only way...for you to die would destroy me, little one..."  
  
Silently, the two got to their feet, picked up the candle, pushed open the door, and slid out, leaving the room in darkness.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Something was amiss.  
  
The Witch-King of Angmar looked up from the darkness that writhed at his feet, flooding down the tunnel. Somewhere, he was certain, something..._wrong_ had happened. He was not sure **what** it was, but he did know that it was a situation that should be rectified as soon as possible.  
  
He moved quickly down the passage, sniffing for the scent of the propagators.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Legolas froze against the cold, slimy wall. They had been wandering around the fortress for _hours_, and still were no closer to the exit. The child was shaking from nervousness and worry. He kept starting at practically undetectable noises, and his breath came in jarring, stilted snatches.  
  
Fear was pounding through him, making the blurred jumble of his thoughts an almost inaudible patter. A cool chill shuddered in his bones as a dark wind seemed to encompass him. He struggled against it, but the terror would not stop. It swept over him; bleaching away all will to live with its foul embrace. And, in the near distance, a high-pitched scream rose from an undead throat.  
  
His heart stopped for several beats, and then began hammering in a wild, frantic fury. Adrenaline rushed into his bloodstream, and his body prepared to run. But the Prince's mind was trapped, held, and so he did not move...he merely waited for the end. The end of thought and hope and warm, full- blooded life.  
  
And so he remained, while blackness rushed in.  
  
A light exploded in the suffocating darkness, and he raised his tired eyes to the sight of...his _father_.  
  
Thranduil's bright glow shone out, illuminating the gloomy passage with a white-gold gleam. The Elvenking was magnificent and terrible in his rage and hate, glaring with loathing at the black-robed figure that stood at the end of the tunnel, barring their way. His eyes burned angrily, fire smouldering in the steel grey depths. He took one step toward his opponent, taking the candle from his son before reaching up and seizing a brand from the wall. Lighting it, he placed the candle on the floor and strode forwards.  
  
Legolas wanted to cry out, to stop his father from advancing towards this certain death...but he could not move. He could only watch helplessly as the white-hot flame that was Thranduil moved toward the towering shadow that was the Ringwraith. Could only pray to the Valar as the tears raced bitterly down his cheeks. Could only hope that his father would somehow win.  
  
His vision cleared, allowing him to see every detail of the two soon-to-be fighters. Thranduil's face wore a proud, confident, yet slightly wary expression. His body had assumed a strong, solid stance, yet one that would allow him to retreat swiftly if such an action became necessary. The Nazgul, on the other hand, was a pillar of menace. Dark terror rolled off it, seeping into the two Elves. The child's breath came in horrible gulps and gasps, tearing at his throat with their sudden abruptness.  
  
And then the Elvenking's torch-wielding hand moved up in a fantastic blur of speed. The golden fire at the end cut a burning yellow streak through the dark, musty air, causing Legolas to blink in almost-pain. But the Nazgul reacted just as quickly, whipping backwards and exhaling a foul blast of the Black Breath. The Sinda staggered, and his son tried to cry out to him, but all to no avail. His lungs seemed to have frozen with the shock of the Ringwraith's weapon. His mind was reeling, and he could barely stay upright.  
  
And then Thranduil regained his balance, and struck out once more. Then again, and again. He forced the undead creature back against the wall, driving it to the point where it would be unable to retreat, and attack was its only option. He was working it into a trap, and Legolas hoped that the Nazgul wouldn't realize this fact until it was too late. His father was giving no opportunity for retaliation, his attention clearly devoted to running his opponent into the place where it would be possible for the Elvenking to vanquish it. The tiniest slip of concentration could be lethal at this point, and so the Elfling clamped his lips tightly shut, watching the intense duel before him unfold with wide eyes and pounding heart.  
  
It was a strange and incredible sight to behold. One figure was a star, a creation of pure light, and boundless energy. Courage pulsed from the slender frame, for all that the fighter had been nearly to Mandos' Halls just hours before. The swift, shining body was like quicksilver, impossible to catch, sliding away from the other's grasp like smoke. The brand he held was corn-coloured, and even the child could feel the heat of it, radiating out from the gleaming orange centre.  
  
The other was a pillar of darkness. Towering over its smaller opponent, it screamed its horrible scream over and over again. It was the very embodiment of fear in the short time of the fight, something that could not be imagined in the worst of nightmares. The bitter sword that it held struck faster than sight could follow, whilst the horror of its presence almost suffocated the pair. It was something that should not be seen or heard, and yet there it stood, taunting and mocking them with its presence. _Look,_ it seemed to say, _see what our Master is capable of creating...something stronger than you shall ever be...something that all living beasts dread, something that you try with all your might to avoid...if he can do this to Men, who knows what he can do to **you**?  
_  
The final blow came so fast and strong that Legolas couldn't see it. But one moment his father was standing before the Nazgul, and the next he was leaping away from it, and then turning back, still holding the flaming torch.  
  
Whatever he had done, the effect was instantaneous. The creature shrieked in abominable pain, attempting to dodge sideways along the wall...as it's robes went up in flames. It beat itself roughly against the stonework, trying to douse the fire, before turning desperately back to the Elvenking.  
  
Thranduil stood noble and tall, his face a stern mask of authority. He stepped forward, brandishing his burning weapon in one hand. His eyes crackled dangerously, and the Ringwraith shrunk away from his wrath. As the Sinda Lord advanced, with a slow, menacing pace, it practically whimpered. Thranduil raised one hand in a threatening manner, and the creature shook its invisible head frantically, trying to dart away. The Elvenking regarded it impassively for a short while, and then turned away. Taking another torch from the wall, he lit it and tossed it to the Nazgul's feet, where it remained, burning brightly.  
  
Legolas found himself suddenly able to move once more. He made a tiny noise in the back of his throat, and his father strode swiftly towards him, leaving the Witch-King there in the passage to burn. Kneeling, the older Elf held his son to him briefly, before gently helping the boy up and leading him out of the dank tunnel.  
  
And the Nazgul burnt behind them.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
_Well, I suppose I **did** ask for excitement_.  
  
Celeborn heaved a sigh and turned from the window. Outside, Lothlorien was beginning to resemble a six-year-old human's idea of a battlefield after twenty expert pranksters had been let loose on it. Mainly because it was a two-century-old Elf's idea of a battlefield after twenty expert pranksters had been let loose on it.  
  
That basically meant red and black dye on the trunks- and occasionally the leaves- of the trees, buckets of water concealed in branches, pink, orange, blue, and purple streamers draped over all the flets, and general all- around chaos.  
  
The Lord of Lothlorien considered the scene almost wistfully. It would be such fun to...no, he could not. It would not do for Lorien's inhabitants to see their Lord tip pails of yellow and violet dye over twenty-eight children, even if said children had just proceeded to severely destroy the Golden Wood's normal serene image. No, it would not do _at all._  
  
_Oh, who **cares?**_ asked a voice in his head. _Not me. It would be most amusing- and it would certainly serve to teach them a lesson. Maybe then they'll think twice about drenching my wife. Although, to be fair, I do not assume that they knew she would be the first person there after they rigged up **that** little...surprise.  
  
_Celeborn had to bite down a tiny smile at the memory of _that_ incident. Two Nandar children, only just able to climb, had somehow set a bucket of pale green dye over one of the few walkways that helped connect those parts of the city not linked by the branches of the trees. Galadriel had chosen to use that particular walkway later in the afternoon, and had managed to get soaked to the skin when she passed directly beneath the pail. She had stormed back into their flet, changed her dress, and gone to find the pair who had set the pail. That evening, two young Nandar girls had stumbled back into the city...having been stained a very pretty indigo colour.  
  
Yes, that had been an extremely amusing incident.  
  
It had also brought about Lothmiren's first real reaction since her arrival in Lorien. Mostly, the Elf had been withdrawn, her smiles ghostly, her voice hushed. But upon seeing the fate of the two children...she had thrown back her head and roared with laughter like the rest of them.  
  
Celeborn smiled suddenly. _If Galadriel is allowed to cover children in dye, then why should I not be permitted to do the same? After all, she is...more **respected** than I am, and is expected to behave more- regally, so...  
_  
"Good afternoon, _Melethen_," came a voice from the door. He swung round, and was greeted with the sight of his wife standing in the doorway, a broad smile on her face. She walked over to him, wrapping her arm around him. "Hmm, it appears that you do have a good reason for showing those children exactly _what_ you are capable of."  
  
"You are hardly one to talk," he teased her gently. "The Artanis of the First Age would not even have considered throwing pails of dye over young Nandar girls. Rather, she would have-"  
  
"Gone straight to their parents, and then given the troublemakers a severe lecture. I am aware of that...I have changed."  
  
"Time has softened you, beloved. You are no longer as stern as that Artanis was." He smiled mischievously at her. "And I think I am glad for the change!"  
  
"I believe what you are trying to say is that you would have preferred me to be less of a fighter and a challenge when you first met me."  
  
"Nay, I merely meant- you are easier to be with and talk to now, in that one does not have to guard one's tongue when speaking to you. It is easier to talk to you of simpler matters- and the Artanis I first met would not even have _considered_ having children! I love you, and I have always loved you, but I also like the way that you have changed."  
  
"I see."  
  
He took her hand and led her outside.  
  
Five hours later, twenty-eight Elflings, every one of them drenched in pink dye, stumbled back into the city. They looked rather sheepish, but, at the same time, rather pleased.  
  
Two miles out, a pair of much older Elves perched side by side on the top of a tall tree. One, a lady, had an extremely satisfied look on her face. Her companion was simply smiling.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
He stumbled as he ran. His body was not near being completely healed, and the recent encounter with the Ringwraith had left him noticeably weakened. His mind kept trying to shut out the reality of what was occurring around him, and he had to force his attention back to the path he was taking. Additionally, his leg was stiffening up as he drove himself on, the pain of the wound finally having been reduced to numbness. Now his muscles were seizing up as the injury tried to close over.  
  
But he had to run.  
  
Thranduil's breath suddenly halted, and then came again. He doubled over, gasping as pain lanced through his lungs. He knew that they had to stop. But he also knew that they could not afford to waste time. They needed to find the exit, and they were getting closer to doing so. He could almost smell the fresh air. It was certainly becoming easier to breath as they moved nearer to the exit, probably due to the untainted oxygen, and the light breezes that blew even about this forbidding tower.  
  
So close...and yet that freedom, the freedom of the forest, was denied him. He did not have the energy to continue searching. Below his feet, in a deeper passage, the Witch-King was still shrieking, drawing the attention of his minions and underlings away from the two Elves. But that distraction would not last long. They had to get out, they _had_ to.  
  
But they could not, and the blame lay solely with him. It did not occur to him that it was actually the goblin that had wounded him that was the cause of their troubles. To his mind, all that had transpired since the attack on the Elven city was his fault, and his alone.  
  
A small hand gently touched his own. Glancing down, he saw Legolas' young face upturned to his. The child pulled his father's arm down, until the Elvenking was leaning slightly to the left, some of his weight being taken on his son's shoulders.  
  
"Ada?" Such a tiny whisper, none but an Elf could have detected it. "Ada, you cannot travel in this state. We need to stop. Maybe we will be able to treat your injury further. At this moment, you are straining yourself dangerously. If we persevere in our path for too long, the slightly closed edges may rip open again. If that happens, the wound will bleed more severely, and we will be_ forced_ to stop. And then maybe the infestation will return. However, if we halt now, it is less likely that the insects will scent your blood and come for you, and the wound will have some time to heal. That would be beneficial to us, as it would allow us to increase our speed, while leaving less of a blood trail."  
  
Thranduil stared at the Elfling. _He is unusually wise, for one so young. What he suggests would indeed be the best course of action. And this wisdom from the mouth of a child!  
  
No...not a child. His body is that of a child, and some of his thoughts retain that innocence, but his mind- why is it that even those who have not even grown up are exposed to the Necromancer's viciousness? Why indeed...it is a question that most likely will never be answered. Our children have aged beyond their years. They understand warfare, and ailments, and no doubt many other things. Ai, that they have had their cherished naïveté taken from them! It should not have come to this, but Sauron forced it to.  
  
That Maia is responsible for too many evils. And so was Morgoth, his master. Too cruel, the pair of them...one created orcs, and Balrogs, and destroyed the Two Trees. The other brought normal life in our realm to a halt, and changed Greenwood to Mirkwood, and forged a Ring that would have brought him victory even over the Three. And that power would have shattered even Imladris.  
  
_He blinked at that thought, and brought his mind back to the matter at hand.  
  
"Yes, _ion-nin_, your idea is a good one. We shall rest now. But not for long, and we must make haste after that. Remember, our current situation is a precarious one. When the Witch-King recovers, he will immediately send out searchers to look for us. We _must _be out of this fortress before that happens. Our rest shall be short, only an hour at most. Then we move on." His tone was urgent.  
  
His son acknowledged him with a slight nod, and the pair slipped into a tiny niche in the wall. It was just deep enough to offer some semblance of cover, but not quite enough to conceal them from anyone who might happen to look directly in. The walls were decorated in a thick blue-green slime, which squelched unpleasantly when the two bodies pressed against it.  
  
The Sinda suddenly realised that he was exhausted. Physical and mental strain had been his near-constant companions for several days, and he was almost collapsing under them. It seemed that whenever he managed to rest, the brief burst of energy that he gained was quickly consumed by the overbearing weariness that continually ate away at his mind and body. It was not just the stress, it was the place. Dol Guldor exerted some kind of power over its unfortunate victims, wearing them down. Until he broke free from its oppressive grip, he would be trapped under the unnatural pressure it forced upon him.  
  
The stinging in a particularly long-lasting welt on his back had vanished. Frowning, he turned his head. The cut was still there- but the rough edges had been coated with the slime that covered the walls of their 'refuge'.  
  
_It must have healing properties- ha, not what one would expect of a 'plant' that is more like a liquidified mould. But then, do we ever expect what we find out? Rarely, and then it is mostly in familiar surroundings that we are able to predict what we will likely discover. And by all means, if it will enable injuries to heal faster, then what objection do I have to it? None whatsoever_.  
  
With a mutter about things not being easily understood, Thranduil took a handful of the substance and slapped it onto the more serious wound in his leg. To his relief, the pain diminished almost instantly. He also noted that the sides of the hole began to- well, stick to each other would probably be the most easily understood term. Turning to face Legolas, he gently rubbed more of the plant into the lingering weals on the boy's shoulder blades. His son stirred from his still position, from which he had been watching the passage, and gave his father a questioning glance. A moment later this expression became one of understanding, and the Elfling offered his father a small smile for the effort.  
  
They did not remain there long. Soon they had to clamber to their feet and stumble out, continuing their search for an exit. It was two hours later when the Elvenking felt the most wonderful sensation he had in decades.  
  
It was a light evening zephyr, and it was blowing teasingly down the dark tunnel that they occupied.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Heh. Well, here I am again. Blasted school.  
  
And there are other reasons why I didn't update faster. I wanted to, honest, but...A: I read this RIDICULOUS rapefic called _Celebrian _at greyarchieves . com, in which Elrond's wife, Celebrian, _chooses _to be sexually abused by orcs. And then runs away from Rivendell to be abused some more. I could really have done without knowing what sick little fantasies people harbour. _Bad_ mental images.  
  
B: I also read an **illustrated **original fiction about a lesbian girl with a guy's parts who does immoral things to herself. That squicked me for _ages_.  
  
C: there was an issue on a posting board that I frequent over some alleged 'Christians' who apparently want to nuke those parts of the world that don't have Christian governments. I am a Christian myself, so, as you can imagine, the idea of these maniacs pretending to share my faith was quite upsetting. I seriously do not think that God would like us to blow up the USA. He is our Saviour, and He believes in PEACE. I think these idiots missed that part of the Bible.  
  
Aaaanyway. I guess some of you didn't have your _Fellowship of the Ring_ directly to hand. If Thranduil died, I'd have had to label this an AU. But don't worry, I'm not laughing at you. If anything, I'm touched at your concern. One or two people said that they were crying...wow. I didn't know that I was_ that_ good. Well, he's _not_ dead, so I hope that cheers you up.  
  
And I have lurkers! Whee! I am very pleased to hear that. It means that more people are reading the story than I thought. And if you're having trouble imagining Galadriel playing tricks...think a bit. She's not in the middle of a war right now, and there are children dying the _mallorn_ purple. Oh, and I _do_ get a bit of Artistic Licence with her- just not too much.  
  
And next chapter- we leave Dol Guldor.  
  
Starwind Rohana, still trying to recover from the mental images caused by reading _Celebrian_. 


	5. A Night Zephyr

Disclaimer: I own nothing, nothing at all- except for this really weird and twisted plotline.  
  
A/N: Cool. You liked Funloving!Galadriel and found her amusing! And I have not received any flames as of yet! NOT that I'm eager for that to happen in any shape or form. If you leave constructive criticism, then please, try to be civil. I would like this story to be good, so I will appreciate your comments. As a matter of fact, I always have done. But please, don't be excessively harsh. Flames, and badly put CC, can really destroy someone's self-confidence.  
  
That being said, I have managed to get rid of the mental scars caused by the badfics that I read. Yay for brain bleach.  
  
A Night-Zephyr.  
  
The gleam of silver at the edge of the courtyard went unnoticed. All that the casual observer would have noticed was the slim flickers of white-gold light that sped by. The glimmers were gone too soon for any other details to be noted.  
  
Legolas pressed his battered body against the doorframe. He was trembling, both from half-acknowledged fear and giddy anticipation. They were nearly out...just a few steps and they would have left the building. Beyond the empty doorway only unroofed, gated walls would hinder their departure. They were almost as good as free, but not quite completely there yet. They still had to evade capture until they had passed the guards that patrolled the high outer walls. But still...so close to escape...  
  
The feeling of impending freedom was so intense that he could practically taste it, and, if he had truly been able to, it would have been as sweet as honey. Nay, he thought, sweeter. It was a half-expected thought.  
  
Those few moments branded themselves into the child's memory for eternity. His senses were heightened by the adrenaline pumping through his system. He could make out every silver-bathed stone, every slight movement of the leaves of the single tree visible from where he stood. His ears, suddenly even more sensitive than normal, were able to detect the tinniest whisper in the near-silent night air. The rich scent of earth and tree bombarded him.  
  
A cool breeze gently brushed his skin, causing him to shiver. The zephyr danced lightly over his body, murmuring of tall trees and silver branches, and golden flowers falling softly from those branches, to light on the children playing below. It breathed of sweeping plains and grey forests, of towering mountains, and of peace in a realm where a Lady sat, ancient and fair as the day. It blew softly over him, firing his mind with the knowledge of what awaited him beyond these high walls, and he moved his head, impatient for them to go on their way.  
  
"Shhh..."  
  
His father's delicate whisper touched his ears lightly. His slate-blue eyes slid sideways, catching his father's steel-grey ones. Why should they not move? Nobody was there, were they? Or at least, _he _could see none. Could the Elvenking detect things that he was unable to? Legolas didn't doubt it. His father was older and wiser than he. But that didn't make this waiting any easier. If only he could somehow _sense_ whatever it was! _Then _he would not mind the delay.  
  
_Thud-ud-creeeee. Thump-ump-kraaaaakt._  
  
A door banged open at the other side of the courtyard. The Sinda Lord stiffened, pulling his child back against his body. The pair pressed backwards into the shadows that hung just inside the door, tense and nervous. The blackness wreathed them both in strange patterns, making it seem as if only parts of their bodies were there, and the rest had been faded out. It was an eerie effect, and one that blended them perfectly in with the dark stone of the wall. They were no more than twining shadows. Invisible.  
  
The..._thing _that stepped out of the opposite entrance was a creature that neither of them had ever seen before. It appeared to be some disgusting hybrid of two different kinds of orc and a Warg. Its teeth were long, slashing canines. A type of rough, shaggy fur covered its back and limbs. It had a squat, low-slung body; its legs were compact and short, while its arms were long, trailing back along the ground. It looked undeniably strong. Thick layers of muscle rippled visibly under the dark skin.  
  
Legolas' breath caught as the beast turned its head toward their 'hiding place'. It raised its long snout, sniffing, as though it believed itself capable of finding their location entirely by scent.  
  
At that point, the Elfling was in rather the same frame of mind. The animal was something unknown, something dangerous. Normally, he would not have feared the unknown, but he was different now. Dol Guldor had changed him, if not drastically. Even though his general ways of thinking- the ways he viewed the world- were untransformed, he was frightened by those things that might cause him the slightest harm. More so if he had never encountered them before. It was, although unbeknown to the child, a startlingly swift change, and one that should never have taken place.  
  
The 'Waorcg', as Legolas mentally named it, padded over to the vaster 'tower' that the pair occupied. The 'tower' was, in reality, simply the above-ground extension of the sprawling mass that was the dark fortress. Most of the atrocities and organizations were carried out below the earth. It's designer had found it easier to avoid discovery that way; if there was less to be seen, then the chances of some Elf stumbling across it were lowered. As an added bonus, the longer the unfortunate captives were unable to see the sky, or hear the wind, the more despair and listlessness began to creep up on them. Oppressed by the enclosed, trapped feeling, the only Elf to ever have been liberated had retained a fear for underground places. Now, the Prince understood his sentiments.  
  
The creature appeared to look directly at him. Trying to flatten himself even harder against the wall, the child thought of several words that he would have liked to direct at it. None of them were remotely polite, and at least five should not have been known by _any_ Elf, let alone the son of the King.  
  
_Any movement now...the slightest motion, and it will tear us apart. It suspects that we are here. If it thinks that it sees us, it** will** attack, of that I am sure. It is something that should never have happened! But then again, **orcs **are something that should never have happened, and yet they plague us. Alas, that Melkor should seek to corrupt every beauteous thing in this world! He stripped Valinor of her light, the Eldar of their innocence...Arda of her loveliness. He scored great wounds into the land itself. He mutilated the works of Iluvatar- he **mocked **all that has been cherished and revered in the Ages of this world. He deserved the Void- none have earned it more.  
  
Why? Why did he choose to take those who could not defy him, and take away their purity? Did he even have a cause? When I once asked, Nana told me that it was jealousy. But why was he jealous in the first place? Whatever the reason, this is the result- and it falls on those who were never asked to fight him.  
_  
Closer. Closer. The beast paused, drawing its upper lip away from the long, curved, serrated fangs that it used to rip its prey apart. The child felt that his breathing was far too loud. He held his breath, but after a while his chest began to hurt, and he had to exhale as softly as possible. Two orangey-red eyes fixed upon the very spot where he stood, as he tried hard not to shake in terror.  
  
Something moved at the edge of the yard. The 'Waorcg' raised its ugly, misshapen head, glanced back at them, and then set off toward the source of the disturbance. Legolas watched in paralysed, morbid fascination. What...?  
  
The creature leapt at its meal. The huge rat that it was chasing sat up, squeaked, and made a dash for its hole. Its tiny eyes were wide with fear, its muscles racing as it made a final jump- too late!  
  
The child's heart almost stopped as the animal pounced forwards. Sharp teeth flashed out, once, twice...and then the rodent appeared to shatter into tiny fragments, torn apart by the rough edges. The beast licked at it's bloodied jaws, grunted softly- a harsh, grating sound- and shuffled back towards the door from whence it had first come. The Prince took a deep, shaken breath. He wasn't sure exactly_ how_ that thing had missed finding them, but he was unmistakably relieved. They had come so far...to be defeated then would, although fatal and therefore not giving much time for emotion would have utterly shattered him.  
  
He felt as though something large and heavy had slammed into his chest. The euphoria that had originally filled him at the sight of the freedom lying within his grasp had suddenly drained out of him. He now saw their situation clearly. He knew the real, non-clean-air-affected reality.  
  
They were not out yet. They still had to get beyond the dark, constricting walls.  
  
He leant into his father. The older Elf's warmth was some comfort to him. It reminded him of happier days, when there had been laughter, friendship, and safety. He remembered all those who had been there with him, making his life worth living, simply by their existence. He recalled the smiles of his friends, the voice of his mother...the times when his father had not had to go into battle and pain every single day.  
  
But his father could still laugh, at least.  
  
And that was something.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
The mud and mire did not hold him back. It was a simple matter; up, over the top of the wall, and down the other side. Obstacles: a distinctive_ lack_ of handholds, a recent rainfall, and a sentry.  
  
Thranduil studied the height that they were about to scale, planning his way up. There were several cracks in the stonework, making a passable route until within two-thirds of the way up. Beyond that, the stonework was smooth. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to get further.  
  
_Ah, well. It is the best option we have. Considering that the other two are either A: burning down the gate, or B: disguising ourselves as orcs, neither of which have the remotest chance of being successful.  
_  
A wry smile._ In conclusion, that would make the option that we have chosen the **only **option.  
_  
He took a stride forwards, his son following him so closely that it was almost as if the boy was attached to him. The Elvenking felt a kind of warmth spread throughout his body at the simple, almost childish trust that the Elfling was displaying. So, he can still remember how to be as he should be...to act as one so young should.  
  
He set his fingers carefully into the deep cracks decorating the walls, and began to climb. The heat of his son's form remained pressed close to him, and he gave the child a warm, unseen smile. Feeling the love that coursed through his veins and his son's gave him the strength to carry on.  
  
The strain of lifting his weight, up, up, up, ended after some time. He half-sat, half-hung from the highest gap, peering upwards. The clouds practically blocked the moon's pale light, but he could just make out the silvery-white shape, riding on the top of the sky. The stars, however, were completely concealed. Thranduil wasn't sure if he was glad or not. On one hand, they could not afford to fall into a star-induced haze for half an hour. On the other, a bit of starlight would have helped his mind considerably, after being imprisoned for so long. Normally, the sight of the stars would not cause him to drift into a daze, but having been unable to see them, and the hope they symbolized- it would, he reluctantly admitted, have been a problem.  
  
And then the damp, chipped rock slid 'beneath' him as he ascended the final stretch that separated them from the forest beyond. Fingers tensing against the pitted stone, his bare feet finding the tiniest holds, arms reaching and pulling in a final run for escape, the Elvenking climbed up the nearly smooth face that was the last part of the wall. Legolas was almost beside him; the child's features were turned up to the Sinda Lord. Slowly, they rose, less certain this time, but steadily moving upward towards the top of the wall, and closer to freedom.  
  
_Stretch...catch...pull...just one more reach and I shall be out, I shall have escaped! Just one more moment, just one more strain. So soon, so soon, we will be free from here- ha, hear me now! All this time that I have thought of freedom...freedom. I think as though I am a slave, to talk of freedom! This place never held me as a slave. In a way, I always **have** been free. I was...not unchained, but at least the actions that I made were my own. I **chose** what I did, to a certain extent. I fought my own fight. I was no being's '**property**'! I was my own person. I had no master, and I have none now! Nor, if it is within my ability to ensure it, shall I ever be owned. And neither shall any Elf- or even any **Man**- under my protection. I will **never** allow any who are sheltered by my family to be taken to labour against their will. For if I allowed that...it would be as abominable as sending a slaver my own wife or son. I will never let servitude come upon one whom I protect. If Dol Guldor was a terrible place, we, at least, were not boasted of as possessions!  
  
Ah, Legolas, my little Greenleaf. My child, we are almost there, we are nearly away...see! Dear Elbereth- we are **out**!  
_  
Mirkwood lay before them, slightly silvered by moonlight. But mostly she was dark, deeply shadowed and wrapped in evil. And yet Thranduil barely noticed this. The time for thinking of the lingering evils of the wood had come and passed. Now was the time to run.  
  
And so they ran.  
  
His muscles tensed, gathered- pushed! He sprang through the air, the drop to the cold ground huge beneath him, and all that he felt was pure excitement. He was balanced, for one wonderful moment, between falling and flying. The gentle night time zephyrs blew over his skin; he could see his landing point with perfect clarity. He was soaring, knowing that he could easily fall, but filled with the assurance that he would not. He knew, somehow, that he would land safely. It was nothing definite that gave him this answer. It was simply confidence and exhilaration, and an inner instinct that said, _Look, you use **this** much energy, and you jump at **this **angle, and the wind is **this** strong, and **that** is where you land...  
_  
The silver-tinted branch dipped slightly as he landed, gripping it lightly. Straightening, he turned, pale gold hair lifting a little on the quiet breezes. He looked at the top of the wall, where his son still stood, unsure of what to do. The hesitation was evident in his stance and face.  
  
"Come!" A soft word. Louder than a whisper, but quieter than normal. The Elfling would hear it, though. "Come! Do not linger! 'Tis a simple jump, Legolas. Do not worry. You will not fall. Your path is clear. Come, take the leap! You can make it with ease. And then we can leave this accursed place behind us for all eternity- all that you have to do is jump!"  
  
His child crouched, face turned to the Elvenking. The Sinda could make out the obvious nervousness on the boy's face as he judged the distance and the height. It would be a simple leap- but a simple leap with a tiny misstep was what had caused the problems with Dol Guldor in the first place. Thranduil could understand why his son was afraid...afraid of falling like he had that one time. That last, unfortunate time.  
  
"Ada, I- I'll fall! I can't..."  
  
"Yes! Yes, you can! _Think_, child! You have often leapt this far, and suffered no ill consequences. Imagine that- imagine that you are at home, in that room with the low couches...you used to jump from one to another, much further than this. Come, now. Surely you will not fall- and if you do, I shall catch you. Hurry..."  
  
He broke off, wondering if there was another way to coax the Elfling over. Another way to allay his fears- ah, there it was!  
  
"Can you not smell the leaves, and the living wood? Can you not taste the sweetness of the fresh breeze as it touches the boughs? Can you not scent the rich earth, as it gives life and baseness to our home? Hear the leaves rustle and whisper, and the trees speak, in their own quiet manner? See the silver of the moonlight, and the open arms of the branches? Come, _ion-nin_, do you not wish to be amongst all this wonder? Jump!"  
  
Legolas nodded slightly, visibly tensing as he chose a landing spot. Thranduil could see the fierce concentration in the child's eyes. He clamped his own mouth shut. He didn't want to distract his son at a crucial moment. Crouching back, the boy readied himself...  
  
The lithe body bounded easily over the massive drop below. Legs trailing, arms outstretched, he reached forwards, grasped at the branch frantically...  
  
...and dragged himself up, shaking badly, sweat pouring off his body. The Sinda Lord knelt beside his offspring, gently embracing the younger Elf. He murmured soft words of comfort and encouragement to the Elfling, who was sobbing slightly. The nearly unsuccessful leap had clearly jolted his nerves.  
  
"Shh, little one. Hush, all is well, there is nothing wrong..." _How can there be anything wrong? We have **escaped**! We have left the Necromancer's fortress **alive**!_ "Come now, hush, we must leave...can you move?"  
  
"Y-yes, Ada, I think so. I think so..."  
  
The Elvenking's heart ached for his child. The poor boy was clinging tightly to his father, obviously terrified, even now that he was safely in the tree. And yet he was trying to convince himself that all was well, that he was ready for the wild rush of running and jumping and catching and vaulting that would take them closer to the edge of the forest.  
  
Moving in the trees was always an engaging experience. The swift, irregular, but always smooth motion consisted of springing from branch to branch, darting along the boughs, vaulting over the thick stems in one's path, and snatching at handholds to pull oneself through the air. The speed was coupled with the expectation of a sudden drop or an unforeseen rise, yet despite this expectation, one was still startled often enough, especially when in unfamiliar territory. The forest was never entirely predictable. Growth and weather left a distinct mark, and one that was always changing. A once level run could become a stooping, uneven route in just a few decades; a surprisingly short amount of time for an Elf.  
  
Was his son really prepared for the focus-hard race? For the uncertain path? Thranduil had his doubts. But as long as they started slowly, cautiously, then all should be well. The boy would easily be able to manage a path that was not taken at the usual reckless pace. All would be well.  
  
Or so he hoped.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
The light emitting from the small talen was dim. Any Elf could see that there was only one lamp or candle lit inside the flet. But then, everyone supposed that it was the business of the solitary Elf inside what went on behind the barred door and drawn curtains. Not theirs. And besides, she had clearly wanted her own space to herself.  
  
Lothmiren had shut herself up in the little 'house' about a day ago. She had given no explanations, she had simply wandered down to where the tapestry cloths and embroidery threads were kept, filled a basket with said threads and an oval of cloth, returned to her flet, and locked herself in. Nobody, save perhaps Galadriel (who had now had several of her normally white dresses dyed crimson in retaliation for attacking the children with dye herself), had any clue as to what in Arda she was doing there. And the Lady of Light wasn't telling.  
  
The Nanda/Sinda hybrid blinked tired grey eyes at her work. She'd always hated embroidery, unless it was something that she truly wanted to complete. What she was stitching right now certainly fell into that category. In fact, she wanted to finish it so much that she had barely thought to eat the last day. Now she was hungry, but her mind didn't notice. She was too absorbed in her embroidering.  
  
Already, she had outlined the upper half of a body on a piece of cloth about three feet tall and two and a half wide. Now she was carefully detailing the beginnings of a face. Marking out the exact line of the jawbone, in precisely the right colour. Picking the perfect shade of pale corn yellow. Ensuring that every tiny detail was just right.  
  
Her needle dipped and rose as she guided it through the cloth. Features were appearing with almost agonizing slowness, but she did no give in to frustration. She continued to sew carefully, dredging up the memories of her family. A mouth was forming now, curved in a small, proud smile. She paused, and then went on with her work.  
  
Bit by bit, precise stitch by precise stitch, the image on the fabric was embroidered.  
  
She stopped. Cut the thread and examined the work. Nodded, satisfied. And picked up her needle again.  
  
This time she marked a smaller figure, standing beside its companion. Leaning into the taller form, this frame belonged to a child...  
  
She didn't know how long she sat there, labouring over her tapestry. It was more than a few days, she knew that much, but she was so engrossed in every detail that she noticed little else. Everything that she did centred on her work.  
  
_He was standing before the window in the pale light of eventide. His face wore an almost dreamy expression, his eyes unfocused. He seemed to be regarding a sight that was invisible to her, and she was afraid to disturb him from his musings. He appeared so lost, so far away...so unlike himself.  
  
"Melethen?" Her voice was tentative, she was not sure if speaking was wise. But her nature demanded that she somehow draw him out of this...shell-like trance. It was a mood that she had never seen him in before, and therefore it frightened her.  
  
"Meleth-nin? My love? What do you see?"  
  
Thranduil stirred, turning to face her, blinking the haze from his eyes. He smiled when he saw who it was.  
  
It was as though his smile lit a candle inside her, warming her when she hadn't even known that she was cold. His entire face lit up, warmth visible in the steel grey eyes. He was as a golden vision, glowing radiantly, outlined against the silver of the mist that held the trees. She stepped forwards, catching him in a tight embrace, feeling the heat of his body.  
  
"Lothen(1), my dearest. What brings you here?"  
  
"Does a wife need a reason to go to her husband?" she returned gently. "What were you looking at?"  
  
"Merely at the dawn," he murmured, his breath ruffling her hair.  
  
_She wove silver and black into the green and brown background, indicating a branch, a leaf, a hollow. Her fingers moved deftly, pushing the needle through the cloth.  
  
There. Finished.  
  
Her husband and son stood side by side, clear against the darkness of the forest behind them. It was as though someone had taken their exact images and had printed them onto the fabric. They were so realistic, it felt as if she could reach out and touch them...but they were smaller than life, and she knew that they were just pictures.  
  
Still, she was triumphant. She had completed her task. She got to her feet- and realised that the candle had burned down, and that she was unusually hungry.  
  
Lothmiren stumbled to the door of her flet, shoved it open, and went to get a meal.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Something slipped through the upper branches. No, two somethings, one large and one small. The larger paused, turning to its companion. The smaller leaned in, appearing to speak to it.  
  
And then they took off at an incredible pace, gliding through the black branches, half-ethereal, akin to strands of mist, in all save that mist moves more slowly. Whitened silver they seemed in the darkness, as graceful beams of moonlight, somehow formed into vaguely real forms. They were beyond the comprehension of mortals- and even some Eldar.  
  
When dawn came, they did not slow. On the contrary, their speed increased. They passed through Mirkwood as fast as the birds, the sunlight turning then into shimmers of gold. Not anything that could be caught or trapped, they were things that had been previously not thought of.  
  
Thranduil was in ecstasy. The wind tore at him, sweeping his long, pale tresses back from his face. His eyes were narrowed, his lungs filled with the pure air. He felt as though he was soaring through the trees, needing nothing from life other than that glorious thrill of confidence.  
  
He knew that Legolas was near him, that the boy was enjoying the exhilarating rush as much as his father was. But that knowledge was faint in comparison to the tremendous assault on his senses. The fire of joy that pounded through him was consuming him in a red-hot flame.  
  
The day sped past him swiftly, as did the following night and the day after. All of it raced past in a blur of colour, save for the details immediately ahead. Exhilaration was flooding his system.  
  
He was running free.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
A/N: Well, here I am again! And with a bit of good news for you all: **SCHOOL'S OUT!** Which is a pretty good cause for relief...  
  
(1) A nickname. Not entirely sure if Elves have nicknames.  
  
My excuse for not updating this time? No plotbunny. I mean, the story was slower at 'coming' to me than it normally is. Oh, and I found some well- written Peredhil slash. I usually hate slash...but not that particular story, surprisingly. And I made a website. I'll link it at the profile SOON.  
  
Hmmm...I've decided to do a rare reviewer response. Please note that this will not be a regular occurrence. After that, more notes to the general audience.  
  
**Dez:** Yup, lurker status has been utterly ruined. And nope, you're not being remotely mean to me. You are being very nice. Fights between Elf Lords and Wraith Men are always fun? Good! That means I actually succeeded in doing it right! You bet poor Celebrian, what they did to her.../Growls angrily at writer. / And yeah, I guess that this _could_ be called an unlabelled AU. I'm really just relying on the fact that we have very little information about Legolas' childhood...or events in Mirkwood in general. I mean, we know that Thranduil shrank the realm, and a bit more, but it's all rather sketchy, leaving anyone writing about that place and time with a bit of free rein. Point, Thranduil's capture would probably get a lot of attention, but it's possible that Tolkien died before he had a chance to write out a firm history for Mirkwood. And don't worry- **I'm** not nuking the USA. I hope no one is.  
  
**BM originally:** You're hooked? Great! I consider it my duty as a writer to give you guys the best of my abilities, so it's good to hear that the work is appreciated. /Blushes at all the praise. / And it's also great for me to find Christians out there that read the Bible and Believe, because one can get lonely, thinking that they're one of a kind.  
  
**Kaye Thorn:** I really know how to write and not lose your attention? /Is flattered. / Must stem from having a concentration disorder- I have to write stuff interestingly if I am to keep working on it. Suspense was good with the Nazgul? Ooh, good, I was trying to make that part very tense. And I suppose that, if Aragorn, who is a human with maybe sixty years of experience, knows about the fire trick, then it's quite likely that an immortal Elf knows it too. And Elves do just wanna have fun...unfortunately, I'm not giving them much.  
  
**Mistopurr:** No. It was not very nice, whichever one you were referring to. Chocolate cake with Elflings on top is a good solution. Legolas is young but wise, isn't he? I wasn't sure if I'd got that bit across. And you loved the fight scene...that's great. Hmm- Funny!Galadriel, maybe?  
  
**Navaer Lalaith:** Well, it's up there too, but someone asked for a link at the PPC Posting Board. Those unlucky enough to be nearby lost their lunch pretty soon.  
  
**Reiji Neko Mitsukai:** Yup, ten year old Elves...technically they'd be babies, but a _relatively_ ten year old Elf is cute.  
  
**Tonianne:** I made you cry? Gee- sorry. And you think it's beautiful...and you're in love with it...thank you. Really, thanks.  
  
To the general populace.  
  
Look here, much more praise of this sort and my ego is going to explode! Please, if you have a complaint, tell me. I want to improve. If you don't, then no matter, just tell me what you think. I welcome it!  
  
Also, to Martina and The-burglar, am I doing something wrong? Neither of you reviewed...I'm not forcing you to; it's just that Martina said that if she could complain, she would...or maybe you're both on holiday. Along with a few other people.  
  
This is just a point, but I do care about my readers. It's like, once I know that you've read it, I kind of 'take you under my wing', so to speak. I know that some people don't review more than once, but I still worry. /Glances at all the OTHER people who haven't reviewed the last two or three chapters. /  
  
Starwind Rohana, about to go out fossil hunting.


	6. Flame Trap

Disclaimer: Do I have to say it every time? I own squat...

A/N: Well, here I am again! There are going to be weird developments in this chapter.

Guess where they are. Seriously, guess. We also have...a visit to Rivendell! So that you can meet the unfortunates who got a Really Long Journey!

With all that said, welcome to chapter six, and all reviewers will get cyber-sweets in the flavour of their choice. Oh, and read the AN at the end of the chapter for explanations.

(By the way, the El-twins are, in this story, full-grown Elves with some habits for acting a bit younger than they are.)

_Now edited! Thanks to Parmalokwen for pointing out my mistakes!_

Flame Trap

Legolas woke slowly.

He was lying against a warm body. Pale corn-coloured locks trailed over his side. His father was holding him close, the Sinda's arms wrapped around him. The older Elf's eyes were glazed in sleep. His gentle hold told the child volumes.

They were safe.

Golden light lanced between branches, dappling the forest floor in brilliant shades. He remained still, content to watch the scenery quietly.

Tall columns, branching out overhead into dozens of strong limbs. Brown bark coating the huge, ancient trees. The immense sentinels were close about the tiny clearing- on all sides but one.

They were at the edge of Mirkwood's gigantic spread. One great oak stood between them and the open plain. Through the thinner undergrowth around it, it was possible to glimpse the vast expanse of thick green grass that swept the distances. To one side, it was just possible to see the foot of the Misty Mountains, as the mighty stone colossi reared proudly against the soft tints of dawn.

He relaxed against his father. The firm, wondrous beauty of the new morning was not lost upon the child, who regarded it all silently. He was utterly at peace, but there was almost a slight tinge of fear in his mind as well. He wasn't entirely sure if all of this glory was real, or if it was but a longing dream. For the most part, he didn't really care.

Thranduil shifted slightly about half an hour later. Legolas nudged against him gently. The calm of the day was all very well for rest and contemplation, but it would probably be a good idea to start moving soon, to get to Lothlorien. Both were eager to meet their friends and family once more. The stress of the last few weeks would need both time and familiar company to be obliterated completely.

Graceful as a cat, the Prince slipped out of his father's lap. The Elvenking got to his feet and stretched, yawning.

"Are you coming?"

"What?" The child glanced up, momentarily confused by the unexpected question. He quickly realized what the older Elf meant, however.

"Yes. Yes, I am coming...now?"

"If you are able."

Legolas met the Sinda's serious gaze. The grey eyes seemed to pierce his skull and penetrate his thoughts. In the face of those apparently all-seeing eyes, nobody could stand and speak that which was not his mind. All was laid bare. All secrets were revealed.

"I am able."

"Good."

And then...

The Elfling had never been beyond Mirkwood's borders. There had been no need. Contact with those from other lands had been limited to travellers passing through the forest. There had been no cause for him to go beyond the realm.

And so the sight of the open plain was overwhelming. Never had he thought that such a great area could be free from the trees. The simple _emptiness_ of it stunned him into silence. Something of that magnitude not only held him...but also scared him. It was too big, it offered too little protection...

Then again, there was less chance of an enemy being able to sneak up unseen.

Slowly, he stepped forwards. His father moved slightly before him, so that the child's right hand was gripping his Ada's left arm. The golden light of morning brightened behind them as they began their journey.

It was to be a journey that defied all intentions, all wishes. Theirs was to become a travel that would take them miles out of their desired course. It was nothing that they anticipated, for if they had, they would perhaps have remained where they stood.

But Legolas didn't know. He had no cares on that bright morning, with song in his heart and laughter on his lips.

"" """""""""""" """"""""** ""**

"_Meleth-nin_?"

Elrond looked up from his work. His face relaxed into a smile when he saw his wife.

"Celebrian." He didn't bother to say anything else. He didn't need to.

"What are you doing?"

The Peredhil glanced back down at the document, which was partially filled with a flowing, delicate script. The rest was mostly blank, apart from a rather interestingly shaped 'stain' in one corner.

"Trying to recall the exact details of the forming of the Last Great Alliance of Elves and Men."

Celebrian seemed to be slightly disconcerted at that.

"Why?"

He shrugged- and wondered the same thing. He'd been driven indoors by the rain, which had prevented a 'family lunch' that they had planned to eat in one of the gardens. Then his sons had begun soaking everything in sight- he supposed that the water must have had some effect on their energy; since they could not run it off when indoors, they resorted to driving everyone mad. His wife had taken the twins away to persuade them to dry off, and Elrond, for a lack of anything better to do, had decided to record the most mundane events that he could think of.

It was odd how even the most mundane events imaginable could have some very interesting elements to them.

Deciding that there was no point in continuing his mental debate over issues having unexpected developments, he rose and embraced his silver-haired wife. She leaned into him, nuzzling gently against his neck.

"You do not normally draw on your manuscripts, love," she murmured.

"No, I do not. Are the twins dry? No, let me rephrase that question- are the twins dry, and are they causing as little damage as possible?"

She laughed softly, pulling away from him teasingly. "Yes, beloved, they are dry...they are also currently so entangled in their blankets and sheets that they are almost incapable of moving. Why do you ask?"

"Merely curiosity," he replied. "And a desire to know whether or not they would desire our attention soon..." He followed this statement up by kissing his wife soundly.

"Perhaps you should accompany me to Lothlorien at some time," she suggested, as they broke away from each other. "Certainly the change would do you good. I swear, our sons are wearing you down- and it doesn't help matters when you consider who is their ally in their misdemeanours!"

"Mmm, maybe that _would_ be an excellent idea- "

He was cut off by the sound of approaching horses. It sounded as though their riders were urging them on almost fanatically, although Elrond could think of no real reason for them to do so. With a sigh, he turned from Celebrian and headed down to the courtyard.

The two riders slowed their mounts to a halt as they entered Imladris. They wore somewhat surprised and grim expressions. Dismounting swiftly, they nodded to the Half-Elf and went to put their steeds to pasture. The Peredhil wondered what message they bore.

A short while later, the pair returned. One remained in the entrance to the yard, while the other approached the Elf Lord and bowed.

"My Lord," he began, speaking formally, "we bring news of a group of Sindar in the Southeast. They claimed to be from Thranduil's realm, having left their homes after the city was attacked at noon. There were but few of them, maybe forty-six, and they have been travelling for many weeks through the Misty Mountains. They have little food, and bear no weapons. They bade us return and inform you of their whereabouts."

The Peredhil had frozen as he heard the tidings._ What? They hail from Mirkwood? But how? If Greenwood has fallen, then this is ill news indeed. But for her warriors, Middle-Earth would have been overrun decades ago; there are many evil creatures that could multiply swiftly in her depths. And as few as forty-six -what of the remainder? There are as many as four hundreds that have lived there...where are they?_

_Nay, think. Surely they will have travelled to Lothlorien, their closer sister-realm. We knew that they might have to come. And yet none of us expected it! Still, hesitation does no good for those who have come to our lands. We must seek and aid them, before other actions may be taken_.

He reached a decision. "Where are they?" he inquired, moving back to the entrance of his house. He would have to arrange for some of his people to go with him to the travellers. They would need food, possibly warmer clothing. Some might have been injured on the road. It was by no means safe to take the paths that led through the Misty Mountains.

"Approximately thirty miles to the Southeast, milord."

"Saddle your horse. We will need you to lead us to them." Elrond turned, and went to gather some of his people.

Barely half an hour later, twenty-three riders, including the 'guide', set out from Rivendell at a furious pace. The horses were being pushed on urgently, their masters giving them little chance for respite. Beneath the scattered trees, the group galloped madly.

Elrond was hanging on tightly. It had been at least half a century since there had been cause for him to ride like this, and he was remembering the incredible, bone-shaking speed with more clarity than ever. The knowledge that he was only slightly in control of the animal beneath him was a fearful one. If he misjudged even vaguely...the creature had a mind of its own, it could easily panic and bolt. Worse, they might slide into the valley. Here, the walls of the gorge that guarded the Brunien were steep. One single slip...just one tiny error...

They pounded on, away from the river. Now they drew a path over rockier ground. The trees were less spread out, and they had to slow to avoid the low branches.

He heard voices ahead. They were muted, and he had to strain his ears to hear them. But they were there. Soft, lilting voices, male and female, younger and older. Singing, almost silent, even to him. Sounds of motion.

But no laughter. Not one echo of mirth, not one ring of the humour customary to these people. Just half-heard whispers of sorrow and regret.

Closer and closer they came to the huddle of stragglers. Riding slowly, wishing that they could move faster. Rain-damped trees brushing at their faces. The _clumph-thumf_ of the horses' hooves, treading the wet ground...

He pushed aside another clump of damp, trailing branches, and stopped.

The group that huddled in the small clearing that he had found presented a forlorn, listless appearance. The women were in the centre, tending to the tiniest of fires, which radiated almost no heat. They moved slowly, stiffly. The males sat around them, their hands wandering over sticks and stones. In hardly any more health than their wives and sisters, they regarded Elrond with calm faces, but not happy ones.

Only the few children were at all lively. There were five, and now they were gathered a little way from their elders. They stood in a circle, holding hands, and were shuffling around to a wandering, quiet song. They slowed somewhat at the Half-Elf's entry into the glade, glancing at him almost curiously. Their rain-slicked hair and drenched clothing clung to their thin frames.

He watched them for a short minute, unsure as to what he was supposed to do. Should he greet them? Or should he let them speak first? In the end, he urged his mount on gently. He was relieved to see that none of them seemed offended by his action.

The small group that had set out from Imladris had brought with them food, flasks, and some necessary items such as basic salves and cloaks. The two separate clusters- riders and refugees- swiftly merged as help was offered and accepted. The Peredhil was swept up in the movement, and willingly lost himself in the simplicity of healing and feeding.

"" """""""""""" """**"** """"""

_Aaahhh._

Cool wind breathing over his face, the dew-damped grass stroking his bare feet, the fresh air filling his lungs, the strain of neglected muscles- all tore at his senses as he pounded over the bare plain. But a tiny, almost insignificant figure beneath- very well, far from but it still _felt _like beneath- the looming mountains he passed; yet he was full of a strange sensation that made him feel incredibly powerful.

He had not run on clear ground for nigh on four centuries, and he found himself wondering why. The trees might be his true home, but the curious experience of an unblocked and even path was one that Thranduil discovered that he had missed- in a half-there, unnoticed way.

He recalled the last time that he had done this...

**Flashback.**

_He raced his wife a little way, laughing. She stumbled along behind him, gasping in between her own shouts of mirth, staggering as she attempted to keep up. Her unbound hair stuck to her flushed face, and she reached up to brush the troublesome tendrils from her eyes. Panting, she collapsed beside him._

_They were some miles from Mirkwood- Several of his chief advisors and close friends had practically ordered him to leave the realm and rest, at least for a few days. The Elvenking had been loath to abandon his duties, even for such a short while, but eventually persuasion and logic won out- he **had** been feeling more tired of late, and everyone unfortunate enough to have to spend excessive time with him noticed this fact._

_Climbing back to his feet, he pulled Lothmiren to a standing position and, taking hold of her hands, he whirled her around in a dizzying, uneven dance. Their long hair flew out behind them. The brilliant golden sunlight lanced down upon them, turning them to shining stars, untouchable in their clean beauty._

_Her blue-green eyes were rapturous at the splendour of the plain. It was as though she were an innocent child, who had not seen aught but darkness before. The simplicity of her acceptance and enjoyment stunned him briefly into silence._

_They collapsed again, lying in each other's arms, sprawled over the grass in a breathless tangle. All troubles buried in the back of their minds, peacefully regarding the bright sky..._

**End flashback.**

He felt a smile come to his lips as he remembered. That day...they had been so happy, lying under the sun on the soft grass, tangled in each other's arms. There had been no real urgency, just calm relaxation.

And now, he realized, he was in another race. A race to get to Lothlorien before the power of Dol Guldor spread irrevocably. The sooner that they arrived there, the sooner they could order his people and return to Mirkwood. Once again, he, and one that he loved, were racing...but this time, it was against a different opponent. This time, they were not competing, but united. And the consequence of failure had swelled enormously...from almost nothing to the overrunning and ransacking of his home.

_Not that there is much left there to ransack! But our houses and stores are by no means insignificant...thank the Valar that a good part of our city is underground. That is, if two-thirds of a palace count as 'a good part of our city'. It may be larger than more than a dozen houses, but does that make it a good part...?_

_Ah, well. I think that we are making good time. Maybe ten more days...make that twelve more days; neither of us is exactly in full health. But we are alone, so we shall perhaps be faster...I hope._

_Why, I wonder, did we go so far out of our course? We should have been able to choose a route that would carry us straight to Lorien in a week. Instead, we appear to have taken a large detour south...ah, yes. There was a patrol in our way as we tried to reach the borders of the forest, and we were forced to turn away from them, only to find that their path coincided with ours, and it seemed a sensible course of action after that to move in the direction that they would least expect. Now I wish that we had not done that._

There were other differences too, of course, but he could not think of them now. Regretfully, the Elvenking turned his mind away from the joyous memories and back to their current location. The Misty Mountains reared forbiddingly to his right, casting dark shadows over the otherwise gleaming sweep of Calenardhon's prairie. Black crevices and caves were only just visible to their keen eyes from their position at what felt like the foot of the mighty range. It made the Sinda feel strangely small.

Warmth at his leg...ah, of course. His son was there, between his father and the high peaks. Clinging to the older Elf for safety and love, emotionally if not physically. Such an innocent, pure sight...

And yet...he did not at that moment seem to be as much of a child. Rather, he looked to be a young, confident adult, his face set in determination and delight as it was. The breeze of their running lifted his golden tresses behind him, as though he were standing with his face to a strong wind. He appeared to be almost as one of the captains that helped lead Mirkwood's armies- young, but intelligent and focused, knowing what was expected of him and willing to live up to those expectations.

Scanning the mountains, the Elven Lord was relieved to notice that there did not seem to be any hostile motion wherever he looked. So, they were most likely safe- his eyes were sharp, and he could easily spot that kind of danger. He felt mildly idiotic for looking for trouble from an area that was so far out of their course, but still...old habits died hard.

He looked to his left, over the wide expanse, and felt a sudden twinge of apprehension. He wasn't sure why he felt it, he just...did. Still, he hadn't lived to be over three thousand years old by ignoring his instincts, and right then his instincts were telling him that he should watch his left, watch the small, gentle hills that seemed incapable of concealing an attack, but possibly could do so. Possibly, if the attacker were to lie low, quietening his breathing and remaining still until the last moment.

Warily, he examined the stretch as best as he could while running on a relatively level surface. Nothing seemed to be amiss, and, after the three untroubled days since leaving Mirkwood, he was relaxing slightly into the unfamiliar surroundings. He was becoming more accustomed to the open space that was sharply interrupted by the looming peaks to his right. As he had no real knowledge of the main dangers of the plains- or if, indeed, there were any at all- he was uncertain as to what to look for. This had set him on edge for the last few days, but now he was beginning to accept it more. He would learn what was dangerous if it ever decided to attack them, and he had a natural intuition that helped him to determine the best way of defeating a previously non-experienced enemy.

_Not_ that it was a good idea to leave all the energy to his intuition. Brute strength and speed were two factors that he did not want to disregard, as they had often proved essential in battle. The Sinda Lord was startlingly quick and strong when in full health, and, although those traits had become rather lacking as of the past four weeks, he was still fully capable of holding his own, at least for a small while.

There was nothing to be seen- or so he thought at first.

Narrowing his eyes, Thranduil focused on a miniature cloud of dust, some way over to his left, maybe twenty miles away. Although a human could not see that far, an Elf might do so on a clear day, such as that one was. Elven sight was sharp, and the Elvenking was glad for that fact, for he was capable of seeing the riders approaching, whilst they could not see him and his son. Therefore, he had the time to determine if they were friend or foe- and in his situation, they were likely to be 'foe', as he did not wish to encounter anyone who might slow them down. As it was, that was just about anyone, though he was in no mood to initiate combat, and so they would hopefully be ignored.

The closer the riders came, the more nervous the Sinda became. They were clad in shining armour, and their horses were swift. The humans clearly knew what they were doing.

He wanted to get _away_ from them. In other words, they were going to take a little trip closer to the mountains. Halting, he caught his son's arm and indicated the approaching warriors. Legolas nodded, and the two altered their course, now heading for the peaks.

The closer that they got, the more intimidated that they were. They didn't turn away, but Thranduil knew that the very sight of the range appearing apparently directly over one's head would be distinctly off-putting to most. It was as though a thousand tons of stone were about to crash down upon his head...

The riders were coming nearer...nearer...

And then, suddenly, they increased their speed, galloping towards the pair, and the Elvenking knew that they'd been seen.

He also knew that the riders were perfectly within their rights to stop them. They were passing, uninvited, through this territory, which, although not owned by the Men of Gondor, was more theirs than his, and therefore he would not resist their pursuers' right to apprehend them. But still...he would much rather have avoided this hindrance.

The riders closed about them. Their horses, restless from the long ride, shifted and huffed their protest. They were almost as swift as Elven horses, the Sinda reflected- being surrounded by well-armed mortals was not enough to divest him of his observant nature. In fact, compared to being trapped in an orc-infested stronghold, being surrounded by human cavalry was more of an annoyance than anything else.

"Who be you?" demanded the apparent captain of the riders. "And what business do you have in Calenardhon?"

Thranduil gave a mental sigh. I_ would much prefer it if we were to avoid this tedious procedure, but unfortunately that is impossible. Ah, well, I suppose that I must go through with it. I **am** intruding on 'their' lands, after all._

"I am..." he hesitated for a moment, "Thranduil Oropherion. This is my son, Legolas. We are passing through Calenardhon in our travels to Lothlorien, and sought not to intrude, yet this route seemed safer to us than walking through the mountains. We follow our companions, who passed hither but a month ago. We ask your pardon for our trespass, and your leave to continue on our way." _There. No mention of kingship or of Mirkwood to give them cause for suspicion, merely names, and simple, truthful facts. Let us hope that it works._

It seemed to, for the Man regarded them with more friendliness in his gaze. Sympathy, as well, which slightly surprised the Sinda, who had not thought to earn pity from them.

"So, you were a part of their numbers? Too weak to be any threat to us, passing inside the borders of a land considered a possible danger, we allowed them passage, not hindering them. And yet you are fed and strong, and fleet you both run, with warriors' eyes. How may you be a part of their kin, moving such a time behind them?"

"We have- have fallen on better parts as we journeyed. Taking a different route around a difficult piece of terrain, we were delayed. Yet we knew our destination, and so did not falter." _Certain parts of Mirkwood are most definitely 'difficult terrain', and we have fed well enough on these plains. And Dol Guldor delayed us significantly. _"Our kin are in need of our assistance, we guide them on certain important matters. We would thank you to move."

The other considered him briefly.

"If they are, as you say, in need of your guidance, then we shall not delay you. Come, Men of Gondor!" With that, they spurred their mounts away from the pair of Elves.

Thranduil could have laughed with gratitude. The hearts of mortals were great indeed.

They had left a horse.

"" """""""""""" """"""""""

"They approach us with speed."

The Lady saw the slight confusion on he husband's face, and smiled gently.

"My Mirror has shown me. King Thranduil and his son are crossing Calenardhon swiftly. They shall be here in a week's time."

Celeborn's face slowly took on an expression of great delight. Then, to her great amusement, he bounded up from his seat, fairly leapt across the room, embraced her warmly, and lifted her off her feet- no small accomplishment, as Galadriel was almost as tall as he was.

"Maybe we should inform Lothmiren," he suggested, after putting her down. "She would be glad to hear of this news."

"Yes," she replied, a distinctly out-of-place smirk of mischief appearing on her fair features. "But imagine what a surprise she would receive if they were to arrive unannounced!"

"No," he said firmly, surprising her a little. He had been more devious than she by far, these past few weeks. "Artanis, she has been far too upset and withdrawn for all of her time here. I do not think that she would thank us to withhold this knowledge from her, hmm?"

"Very well- we shall inform her presently. Still, I cannot help thinking that she is occasionally keeping her laughter inside. Our home has been far from peaceful of late."

"Very much so. And I shall not question you about her mind! But why in all Arda did she choose to shut herself away for nigh on four full days? She did not even think to eat!"

"The flesh embodies what the mind cherishes," she replied cryptically, and left him to try and decode it for himself.

He found her a short while later, gazing out over the city (today it was purple and gold), her head propped on her hands. Her mind wandered over all the events of the recent times.

_I will miss it all,_ she realised, not without some shock. _It has been so amusing to just let go and enjoy myself with them. Ha, that is one thing that even my cousins and brothers would never have thought of me. Nerwen, the stern princess, acting like a young Elfling! I am somewhat glad that they never did think of it. They were disruptive enough as it was, and although I may have aided them occasionally- very well, a good deal of the time- I became colder as we aged._ A wry smile. _Being left to cross the Helcaraxe did not help matters_.

Celeborn nudged her sharply, diverting her thoughts. He wore a vaguely sly expression.

"Embroidery or drawing?"

She didn't bother to wonder what he meant. "Embroidery."

"Ah. Shall we tell her of them now?"

"Nay, let us wait until she is- more secluded, as it were. I would like to inform her in as discreet a manner as possible. Nobody else need know. 'Tis a great thing, to be true, but still...I have met Thranduil. You know how he is. He should not take well to being greeted by all of our numbers, especially after his ordeals...and his child will need rest, much rest, as will he. Just Lothmiren, I think."

"Very well. She ought to be passing near the kitchens soon. She always does, around this time of the day."

Galadriel nodded, and vaulted out of the window. It was a decidedly undignified action, but it served her purpose.

The sand-haired Elf-maiden near the kitchens looked up only to acknowledge and properly greet the Lady. Then Lothmiren returned to whatever small task it was that she had assigned to herself this time.

_Why does she shut everyone out so? No, Nerwen (1), you know why...she hurts too much. And I can cure that._

"Lothmiren?" she said softly, and the other looked up inquiringly. "Lothmiren..." _How do I say_ _this? _"Your husband- he is coming to Lothlorien as we speak. Your child is with him."

The look on the hybrid's face was worth a Silmaril, Galadriel decided later. Almost never in her long life had she seen such profound shock, mingled with a delight so intense that a warm glow lit inside the Lady's chest at the very sight. She had no need to touch the woman's thoughts with her mind; the reaction was written all over the maiden's face.

She left the hybrid alone, walking regally and gracefully toward the tallest _mallorn_ that she could see. She had earned a little last-minute chaos, after the madness of the last month.

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A/N: Well, here I am again!

(1) Galadriel actually has three names. Her mother-name was Nerwen, her father-name was Artanis, and Celeborn called her Galadriel.

Just to say, I'm going away for about a week on this Sunday. I will have no computer access during that time. The next update can be expected in about three or four weeks.

Now, in _The Two Towers_ the riders leave two horses for the Three Walkers. Why wouldn't they do so for Legolas and his father? Also, about the geography, I see it this way:

Standing on Elrond's side of the Misty Mountains and facing them, you have Lothlorien to your right and Mirkwood to your left. I do not think that the two forests are in any way connected. Henceforth, something must go between them. I think that it's Rohan, judging by how close Rohan is to Lorien anyway. But I don't have my maps on me right now, so I may be severely wrong.

This tale is more than halfway done. It'll be sad, having to stop, but I'll manage. Although it's been great.

Starwind Rohana, a solitary kid with Too Much Imagination.


	7. Reunion

Disclaimer: Don't own it, never will.

A/N: This is the final chapter. Yeah, I mean it. There's no more.

And so, we shall see what will happen when two emotionally worn-out Elves finally meet the person who has been keeping her own company for a month! Yes, you guessed it- Lothmiren is here and waiting for her husband. There's a bit of a surprise in the last A/N, and I wish you all the best of enjoyments when reading this chapter. Let us proceed!

Reunion.

_Cluf-whuramph, clup-thwump, cluf-whuramph._

The chestnut mare galloped steadily over the rolling country of Calenardhon. The weight of the two Elves on her back was only about as much as the weight of one human rider, as the Elves were lighter, and so she had no problems as she bore them swiftly to the Golden Wood.

Legolas watched the world as it swept beneath him. The day was bright, and they had naught to fear. And yet he still was not quite content...he was anticipating something, something that he had missed...

_Not long now, Naneth. Maybe another day, and we shall be with you. I have missed you, Nana; I have missed you so much! Your voice, your face, everything about you._

_It has been so long, Naneth. I did not know if I could endure it- by the Valar, I sometimes doubted even Ada! I did not think that even he could have survived some of the things that he somehow lived through. But I should have known- if anyone could have, then Ada could have. He is unlike any other Elf; he can do things that they never could._

The strong arms were warm about him, holding him secure as he perched upon the horse's withers. He looked ahead, scanning the distance. What could he see? What was that...?

Silver and gold flashed briefly, far away. His heart seemed to jump suddenly, hurtling up into his throat. He strained his eyes, hoping to glimpse it again. Just beyond the horizon...he_ knew _that it was there...yes!

"Ada," he breathed, "I can see it. I can see where we are going."

There was no answer but for the arms that tightened about his waist, holding him closer. He glanced over his shoulder, slightly concerned. Why wasn't his father answering him? He decided that he didn't truly mind. Thranduil had more than earned the right to keep his silence, if he so wished. The young Prince pressed back gently, relaxed, and continued to observe his surroundings as the world whipped past.

Sapphire and snow whirled above him, punctuated by the occasional chunk of iron grey. Emerald swirled below him, and he was pressed tight against a warm, large, cedar-shaded body, with another heat against his back. Golden strands caressed his face and his neck. He felt himself beginning to doze as reality became more and more confused around him...and yet it didn't _feel_ confused...nothing seemed to be wrong...

He fell into a kind of half-sleep, in which nothing made much sense, unless it was in the blind, foggy way that everything illogical makes sense in dreams. All seemed hazy, and it was difficult for him to focus in on any one particular sound. It all appeared to be so unreal...and he was warm, and safe, so very, very safe...

Star-scattered darkness took the place of the swinging vaults of blue. Cool breaths pattered pleasantly over his face, leaving him feeling refreshed and well. The heat of the bodies pressed against him became a gentle warmth, a balm to his suddenly tired muscles. He relaxed into the soothing sensations, hovering on the edge of dreams.

_Pearly grey mist curled softly over his face, shimmering pale golden and silver in the light of the stars and the moon. Blurred images floated tantalizingly through his mind...pictures of a great mountain with a crest of fire, and of a small, Man-like creature with curly hair and bare feet and a beautiful gold Ring. An Elf-Lady was standing before the Man-creature, speaking to it...him. The Man-creature held out the Ring, and Legolas saw a white star flash between the Lady's fingers, as she stood straight, her loveliness adding to the fear that she inspired inside him._

_Gold and silver again, only this time above him..._

He awoke. They were slowing now, as the sun's first gleam tinted the sky with a pale tangerine flush. The leaping, rolling motion of the previous carefree gallop had become the steady, rocking stride of a canter. He straightened up from his slumped position against Thranduil's chest.

Ahead of him was a true sight of glory.

The delicate orange and poppy tint of dawn was lighting up a forest of grey-barked trees, which stood reaching towards him with graceful, slender arms. Lovely flowers of gold laced over them, like embroidery on a sleeve. They were tall, beautiful, and served to make the Prince feel as though he were approaching the Blessed Realm. The sunrise had set fiery colours alight in the leaves, and a soft myriad of warm shades flowing over the smooth white-silver trunks.

He was somehow both content and full of a joyous anticipation. There, in that brightly glowing wood, were the Elves whom he had known almost all of his life. Those friends that he had; the familiar people who took counsel with his father...and...

His mother.

He could picture her now, standing in the glorious daylight, her sandy hair glimmering and her blue-green eyes shining with happiness. He imagined her lithe form and her warm, loving smile. He recalled her usual carefree, ruffled appearance; the way that she had used to embrace both the Elvenking and him at the same time (Legolas was still not quite sure how she had accomplished this). Someone who would always think of him, who would never forget him. Someone who would wait for him anxiously, and who would gladly welcome him at the end of each travel that he undertook. Someone who might not accompany him, but who would be there at the end of the ordeal, every time.

They were trotting now, _bad-bmph, bad-bmph_, and he gave a slight yelp as he was jounced on the horse's back. Coarse, tangled hair flapped on the animal's neck, and he wove his hands into it in order to steady himself.

"Not far now," he heard Thranduil mutter behind him. "Not far now, _ion-nin._"

And then, suddenly, he noticed a rushing, roaring sound. Their path was by no means clear.

They had to cross the Anduin.

Any other Elf would have given up. But Legolas did not give up. He had his father with him, and he was confident in the other's ability to find a way through just about _anything_ that the world could throw at them.

They had to stop at the top of the bank. The way down was rocky and steep. The Elvenking tugged at the Prince's tunic gently, carefully removing him from the back of their mount. The corn-haired child slid to the ground with a light _dumph_.

"Ada?" he asked timidly. "Ada, how are we going to cross the river?"

His father seemed rather more preoccupied with examining the current, depth, and width of their obstacle than with answering his son's question. With a quiet sigh, the boy turned to the racing flood of water himself.

There was no denying it: it scared him. It was big, and it behaved so violently, bashing itself off the rocks that stood beside it- and so loud! He wanted to block up his ears, and so he did just that. Spray from the breaking waves settled in his hair; dampened his clothing.

It was all even more foreign to him than the open plains had been. Water, shattering against stone. Strange, he hadn't thought that water _could_ shatter. At any rate, he regarded the battling waters with a mixture of fearful apprehension and curious fascination.

Eventually, his father seemed to make a decision. Taking the young boy's hand, he caught the mare's forelock and began to lead them both, horse and Elfling, down the steep and stony bank.

They halted by the very side of the furious, snatching current. Staring over the Anduin to the opposing ridge, Legolas felt cold, wet, tired, and- in a nutshell- utterly terrified. He didn't know what this new phenomenon was, but it sounded rather like an angry Warg snarling through a mouthful of liquid. It acted violently, powerfully...a huge branch went sweeping past him, battered down the channel...

And then he was suddenly clinging to his Ada, not wanting to let go, and Thranduil held him there, steadying him, before catching his arms and swinging him up, up, onto the chestnut horse's firm back, and with one hand he let go of his father's arm and tangled his fingers in the wiry and knotted mane, holding on for dear life. Finding himself a lot higher up, and very much not in control, he whimpered fearfully.

"Ada?"

The Sinda Lord finally seemed to take proper notice of his son's turbulent emotions.

"Yes, Legolas? What frightens you so?"

"Ada, I-I don't...what are we going to do? What _is_ that? And why- why do we have to cross it? Why _here_? Couldn't we cross somewhere else?"

His father looked thoughtful. Then he turned to the boy and said, quietly, "Would you prefer that we arrived now or later? For if we ford her here, then the end shall come swifter. Yet if we search for another way, our path shall be safer...what say you?"

The golden child considered his options. _It's been so long...I want to see her; I **need** to see her! What trouble could water be? Ada will not allow me to be harmed. I shall be safe enough._

"Very-very well, then." His voice trembled slightly.

The Elvenking had a firm hold on the mare's forelock. Scanning the river as if to look for something, he nodded and stepped forwards. Soft splashes were barely heard over the bellowing roar of the mighty river as the three of them entered the water.

The incredibly powerful current swept the horse off her feet; she kicked out below him in an attempt to stay upright, swimming for the other side. He buried his hands in her unruly coat; clung to her with all of the strength that he could muster as he stared, terrified, at the slow-moving figure of his father, slightly ahead of him and to his right, guiding the creature.

_I am going to fall! I cannot withstand this! I shall be swept away! _

_Nay, calm yourself. I shall not fall. Ada is here. I am safe_.

They were carried downstream swiftly, moving a foot forward for every five that they were pushed, but then, suddenly, there was a jarring motion beneath him, and the next thing he knew, his mount was scrabbling up the bank and into the forest.

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The wind teased her hair lightly. She could see far from her precarious position, balancing on one of the highest (and thinnest) branches in the tree. The edge of Lothlorien was just visible from where she stood, and she halfway imagined that she saw a brown speck moving at the borders.

_Do not be so unintelligent,_ she scolded herself. _They do not have a horse. Unless, of course, they somehow obtained one while on their way here._

Nodding decisively, she slipped carefully down the tree, and set off in the direction of the speck that she had seen.

The ground was smooth and dry beneath her feet. Dust danced about her ankles as she walked. Lothmiren's typical gait was a very long, loping stride, but now she adopted a swinging, stiffer motion that allowed her to cover ground quickly without _too_ much loss of energy. It was a trick that she'd learned from her Nanda mother, and she was grateful for it.

The sun cast its beautiful light through the golden _elanor_ and the long, slim, silver leaves. It turned to delicate mottled patterns of snowy yellow and icy marble, tinged with warm sun-coloured orange and gold. Lothlorien was lovely at any time of the day, but she liked it best when the sun first climbed the horizon, or when the shadows fell in a blaze of red and violet at dusk. Then the tints of the sky flung all other things into varied shades of themselves, and the forest became a true paradise of wondrous hues, all mingling over the faces of those Elves that were awake at such times, and bathing the talans in fire-stricken streaks.

Now that the sun had cleared the site of it's rising, the wood was softer on her eyes, and admittedly less distracting. She was finding it easier to concentrate on her path. And all the while, her mind was praying frantically to whatever Vala might happen to be listening- _Please let them be there, let me see them again, don't make them be lost or injured or unable to think straight, let it not just be a figment of my imagination..._

Her eyes were stinging slightly as tears threatened. With every step, the possibility that it might not have been real hammered itself further into her mind. It was getting harder to convince herself that what she had seen had, in fact, been what she had thought she had seen.

_Ah, but even if it was not true, or I saw something else, then I have nothing left to lose. I have already lost it. Acting as I am only serves to bring me closer to them. Therefore, I shall continue to do so._

Her eyes scanned the trees ahead. She could see nothing to break the gentle rhythm of plant life; could hear nothing that might signify a large creature or a pair of Elves. Her senses were straining, but she could detect nothing.

She stopped, caught hold of a rough-barked bough, and swung herself up. Her feet pushed against the branch, and she reached for the next, seized it, pulled. Her lithe, slender body bounded upwards, in a series of grabs, kicks, and jumps. Up and up, continuing without pause...

She stopped at the top, stood straight, and surveyed the land before her. The borders were nearer now, over two miles nearer. This encouraged her, and she descended once more, to run in the direction of the plains.

It felt pleasant to her feet, to be loping without shoes over the slightly damp, loamy earth. It gave way a little under her steps, like young grass beside a river. Her mind began to wander and drift, playing over events in her life, thinking of her husband and son.

**Flashback.**

_She was a young girl when she first saw Mirkwood. They had lived by a river before that, and she had played in the willow trees, watching the otters and the fish, or staying awake at night to see the rabbits and the russet-red foxes that came down the bank to drink._

_But then all of that changed somehow, when she had been even younger than her son. At only one and a half centuries old, she had left their home, following her father, a Sinda. He had lived in Doriath, then Mirkwood, before they had found him injured beside the river._

_"We will have to go there," he had said, when the first leader, her grandfather, was killed. He was the new leader now, and he chose to take them into the forest of shadows. But it had been Greenwood the Great then._

_She hadn't liked the tall trees, which cast long shadows, even at noontide. But she'd had to go. And she'd gone, clutching her most precious possession to her chest...a little gold model of a flower, a tiny amethyst set in its centre. A flower-jewel for the Flower-Jewel, as her family said._

_She had known that she loved Thranduil from the moment that she saw him._

_Or not love, exactly, but she had felt something strange when she first glimpsed him, at least fifty years older than herself, standing tall beside his own father. They had been there to welcome the new additions to their home- there was plenty of room, and the Nandar had fed themselves on nuts, berries, and roots when they entered._

_They had been similar in status- she the daughter of the colony leader, he the son of the King. She had used to follow him about, fascinated by him for some reason that she could not explain. And he had shown her all the animals that she did not know about, explained how they behaved. She told him about otters, but they did not play in those streams._

_She realised that she was in love with him at four hundred years of age. He was so gentle, and yet strong, and he made her feel...strange, all curled up and warm inside her chest._

_He asked her about two decades later, and she had accepted._

**End flashback.**

And now she was searching for the one that she had pledged herself to. Looking for the Elf that was so close to her heart as to be another part of her soul. Hunting for...for life. For the rightness and the wrongness and the sorrows and the joys that had bound them so tightly.

_How can one explain what is beyond words? To be without him for longer than I have would be as to live without breathing for that time. It is not natural, to do that- the Valar alone know how Celebrian and Elrond manage. But then, I suppose that life in Imladris is less frantic than our lives are normally. While we must balance on a knife-edge, developing our friendships and family bonds tightly in order to simply **survive**, they have a somewhat easier time of it- although their love is not a thing to be scoffed at. They can feel their spouses wherever they are; they are always so certain that they will reunite with their friends._

_I envy them a little. But I would not give up the lifestyle that I have were I to be offered the Three Rings of Power._

She avoided the trees carefully, weaving around them

And then Lothmiren's sensitive ears picked up the delicate _chirchk-scretch_ of a horse's heavier footfall, not too far away.

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Thranduil sat tall on the beast's back. The rocking trot had become a steadier, more controllable walk. This made it much easier to pick their way delicately around the trees. It also seemed to be appreciated by their mount, although the Elvenking had the distinct feeling that it would have been more grateful if they had stopped.

It was almost getting boring. Or rather, it would have been. Under normal circumstances, he would have been impatient to reunite with his wife, but the peace of the beautiful forest was relaxing, and very much appreciated after the hectic carnage of the last month.

He could feel her coming closer and closer as they went onwards, manoeuvring about the proud, mist-grey columns of firm, smooth wood. He swayed gently with the slow, flowing pace, too tired to bother to try keeping still on the chestnut creature's back. He was saving his energy.

_I can feel you._

_I know that you are there. What is a mile between us? A mile is **nothing** when we wish to be together. Soon, so soon...my mind is hungry to see you and hear you._

But he could see nothing; hear nothing. That was one problem with woods, he decided- they were altogether too easy for something or someone that you were looking for to hide in.

He thought that he glimpsed something that was not part of the forest, just in the corner of his eye. He turned the horse, his son's weight heavy against his chest. Then Legolas sat up straighter...

He saw her.

Clad in a loose, simple, pale green dress, his wife was standing between two slender trunks, her sandy hair trailing over her shoulders. Her eyes shone warmly, and a smile touched her face, as she stepped toward him, and he advanced regally upon her, sitting tall, with their child perched happily before him.

They stopped, as if by some silent agreement, several feet apart. He gently nudged the Elfling, who slipped off carefully. Thranduil dismounted in his turn.

They waited for a moment that seemed to last forever, his lips curving in a smile of his own as he surveyed her.

And then they were both running, their arms outstretched, and they collided, falling to the soft floor, clinging to each other in a desperate, warm embrace, she burying her face in his chest, and he hiding his face in her hair.

"You're alive," she sobbed, the joyful tears soaking into his chest. "You're alive."

"I know," he whispered soothingly. "Hush, calm, all is well. We are together again, despite all that has been done to prevent that."

There was a soft, uncertain cry of 'Naneth!', and the pair reached out to their son, clasping him tightly between them. He smiled into his mother's chest, murmuring quiet, undistinguishable words.

Legolas soon drifted once more into slumber, his head nestled against his mother, who breathed reassuring words to him occasionally, while Thranduil told her of the incidents that they had experienced since they had been separated over a month ago.

By the time that he had finished, Lothmiren's fingers had coiled into his hair, and she was cradling their child in one arm. Her eyes looked into his, filled with love and sorrow for what they had endured. She pressed against him gently.

"I-I suppose that we should get up now," she said at last. He did not want to move, but it was true that, as he was King of his own realm, it was about time that he properly acknowledged the leaders of this one. He was, after all, responsible for any of his people now living here.

"Aye, that we should. And Lothen...what _has_ been going on in my absence?"

His wife smiled.

Half an hour later, the Elvenking of Mirkwood was forcing a broad grin off his features. The idea of the impassive and noble Lord Celeborn- whom he had met before- with bright red hair and a bucket of dye to hand was extremely amusing to him.

The horse was trailing along behind them. It was by no means an Elvish mount, but Thranduil couldn't quite bring himself to leave it behind after all the help that it had given them. So it trailed along after them, kicking up the earthy floor and digging its nose into his back.

They travelled a good distance that day. The welcoming trees stood high, the fair light passing between the leaves to colour their faces in cool, dancing shades. The air was fresh, and warm, but not sticky. They moved freely, unhindered, striding out swiftly. Delicate breezes caressed their faces softly.

They had to stop when the sun began to fade. They could have kept on through the night, but none exactly relished the idea of bumping into trees at every turn (the horse would, at any rate, and they did not want the distraction), falling asleep on their feet, and arriving at the Elven city completely worn out, not to mention dishevelled. So they halted, forming a sleepy little huddle at the base of a tree.

But before they slept, Thranduil forced himself to look at the sky, so that he could see precisely _what_ his wife had been talking about when she had mentioned dusk.

He was glad that he had done so.

Violet and mauve shot the indigo fringe of the darkness. Bright scarlet and rich, pale, foaming orange laced the beautiful pink flower that surrounded the sinking sun. Soft aquamarine tendrils still clung to the molten copper that defined the protective, wispy clouds. It was as though one of the Valar had taken the pure joy of an uncorrupted, undamaged child, and had cast it into a brilliant, and yet sadly fleeting moment, which was quickly consumed by the gentle embrace of the warm night's darkness.

His dreams were content. There were no nightmares, no unnerving thoughts. In fact, he hardly dreamt at all.

But what he did dream of soothed him, although it also puzzled him somewhat. They were even more illogical than most dreams are, almost as though he had no real sense of how things worked together and fitted with each other any more. His mind wandered through images of fields of stripy, marble-like grass and big, red-and-turquoise flowers made- it seemed- entirely of coloured water, without any kind of support. He mused on large, fluffy, purple ponies, which appeared to be trotting happily over small mountain ranges comprised entirely of stacks of mithril and amethyst trees.

He woke when the sun reappeared in the sky, flickering brilliantly out over the trees that surrounded them. The rays lashed at his open eyes, shocking him awake. He yawned, and sat up.

Legolas had coiled up at his side, his fair hair trailing over the Elvenking's lap. His eyes were vacant in sleep, and Thranduil absentmindedly wondered if the child's dreams were as inane as his own had been. The slender body was cradled in his wife's lap. Curled up, small, and, unfortunately, no longer innocent.

His gaze drifted to Lothmiren. Her sandy hair trailed loosely over one shoulder. Her face bore a serene, even joyous, expression. She was slumped sideways, rather awkwardly, and he smiled to see it- the _elleth_ always had been in the habit of picking the most unusual positions to recline in. (He recalled a rather amusing incident in which she had folded herself into the knee-space beneath his desk and had been unable to climb out again.)

He was reluctant to disturb the enjoyable calm that he was currently experiencing, but they shouldn't lie there all morning. Not if they wished to arrive in the Elven city at a reasonable hour.

So he moved, gently shifting Legolas' head off his lap and onto the ground, while reaching out to shake his wife's shoulder gently. She stirred, moaning softly, while the Elfling muttered something incoherent, and looked up, his eyes slowly focusing.

"Come," he said, quietly and warmly, looking down at his child. "We should go. The hour is late. If we linger here any longer, then we shall be most delayed."

Two murmurs of assent. He tried to move his stiff muscles– sleeping propped up against a tree did _not _make for the best of comfort in the morning –and clambered awkwardly to his feet, holding out a hand to interlock his fingers with hers and haul her up. She smiled and leaned into him.

Something huffed somewhere behind them. Thranduil sighed before turning around.

"I swear, I doubt that I have ever met a horse, be it Elven or mortal, that is as persistent in nature as you are," he informed the creature. "And I am not quite sure whether this fact amuses me or annoys me."

It was his child who picked up the string that had held his tunic and attempted to hobble the beast to the tree, with some success. The chestnut glared at him, then lowered her head and began to crop the short grass.

They ambled on alone, carefully choosing their path, although there was no real need to. The day was slightly cloudier than the one that had preceded it, but the weather was fair enough.

Ahead of them, walkways and houses were spotted at last. Children could be heard laughing, bards were singing, and friends were shouting cheerfully to each other. Faint glimpses of the lovely city were finally given to the two weary travellers. After so much stress and toil, they would be afforded a well-earned rest. Both were eagerly looking forward to it.

Closer and closer they walked, hidden in the shadows and the trees, until they were standing only twenty feet away from the outmost talen. Then they stopped, looking at each other in light-hearted, anticipating gazes.

Then Thranduil put his right arm about Lothmiren, and his left arm around Legolas, and they walked –King and Queen and Prince –into the bright, beautiful Elven city in that quiet forest.

**The end.**

Y'know, I only just realised that it had taken me about two months to get this chapter out. Bad of me, I know, but the muses have had a lot to work on in other fics, and with schoolwork.../shudders/.

At any rate, you can see that this one's over. Anybody wishing to see more of my work should check out _Where the Present Meets the Past,_ my Elves-in-history story. It is not as Legolas-and-Thranduil centric as this story was –in fact, it focuses a good deal on the Peredhil, their family, and any other characters that I can recall, as long as they are recognisable. It also has quite a few OCs. I also hope to have a _Silmarillion_ fanfic up sometime in the next few months.

Also, if you care about the random musings of a teenage wannabe-author, go check out my livejournal, linked to my profile as my homepage. Actually, just go check it out anyway.

To all of the people who liked it: thanks.

And now for my treat –reviewer responses. For _all_ of you.

**Big Wompum:** Thanks for the praise! I think I must be good at suspense...

**BM originally:** I probably told you this before, but...hooked? Really? I'm flattered! And knowing that there are other Christians out there is really encouraging, because it feels so lonely sometimes...

**Deana:** About ten, I think, maybe eleven. Way too young for most kids to cope.

**Dez:** You're one of the coolest reviewers that I know. You always make your comments entertaining to read, and you make some great points. You don't seem afraid to make me glad, because just reading what you've written makes me glad, and I like that.

**Frodofreak88:** Reader comments, MST style! Seriously though, that's a new one. And I liked his reactions.

**Gemini969:** Okay, I did -/pokes warily/.

**Gozilla: **I did...are they alright?

**Hanna M.:** No, it does not always rain in England, that myth is incorrect. /Passes tissue. /

**Irish Anor:** Yeah, exams suck. I have captured your attention? /Basks in praise. /

**Joshua Nenya:** I'm going to take that 'interesting style' thing as a compliment...hey! I'm learning German!

**Kaye Thorn:** /Snuggles muchly. / Love you, love your moral-raising comments.

**Lady Laswen:** /Bowes. / I aim to please. You're good at humour, by the way.

**Ladypirate3: **Wow! Not two hours had gone by and somebody had reviewed! Thanks!

**Lyn:** Uh, thank you?

**Lysan:** Compelling? Thanks very much. And I'm glad that you took the time to read my bio...

**Martina: **I am incredibly glad that you don't think that there's anything to bitch about in my story. And don't worry; I don't intend to drop the fiction. :')

**Mistopurr: **You took time out of your vacation to review? Whoa, now that is cool.

**Muddie21:** An hour? Quick reading!

**Naever Lalaith: **I appreciate the help with the Elvish, and I'm glad to know that someone else has read Celebrian.

**Parmalokwen:** Thanks for the constructive criticism. I haven't read the appendixes much, so that stuff you gave me was really helpful, and I hope that I amended my faults satisfactorily. And no, I do not just ditch my WIPs, I suspend them. Although, if you reviewed, I might just –scratch that, probably would –continue faster. Feedback counts.

**Pisces 101:** Whoo, long review! Okay, as you see, I've emailed the chapter to you, and I'm glad to sort out those queries of yours! They made me think a bit...

**Reiji Neko Mitsukai:** O-kaaay...is this sweet enough?

**Stuntz:** Dude? I'm a girl, thanks.

**The-burglar:** Uh, well, I'd never written a cliffhanger before...don't-kill-me-please? And I'm honoured to be on your favourites list.

**THECheeseTurkey:** I remind you of Cassia? Wow, I really aspire to get that high!

**Tonianne:** /Is grateful for the love. /

**Trista: **Awesome is cool.

**Zammy: **You know what, Zam? I'm beginning to think you a stalker!

With love to all, from the author...

Starwind Rohana, the imaginative teenage pervy-minded weirdo girl.


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